Lost To The Night
by Esther-Channah
Summary: Sequel to Locked Inside the Facade. Bruce languishes in Arkham while Dick wears the Batsuit.
1. Chapter 1: Shattered Illusions

_Where has the starlight gone_

_Dark is the day_

_How can I find my way home?_

_Home is an empty dream_

_Lost to the night_

_Father, I feel so alone_

_You promised you'd be there_

_Whenever I needed you_

_Whenever I call your name_

_You're not anywhere_

_I'm trying to hold on_

_Just trying to hear your voice_

_One word, just a word will do…_

_Julie Taymor, "Endless Night"_

**Lost to the Night**

Disclaimer: DC owns all non-original characters. I'm not making a cent off of this. If they sue me, they're shooting themselves in the foot, because I won't be able to afford any more comics. "Endless Night" Copyright 1997 by Walt Disney records. From the original Broadway Cast Recording of _The Lion King_. "Good For Nothing" copyright 2005 by Disney Enterprises Inc. From the London Cast Recording CD of _Mary Poppins_.

Please note: DC canon is followed up until the conclusion of the Sacrifice arc. After that, there is a divergency. This is the sequel to "Locked Insided the Facade", and although you will probably be able to follow along just fine without having read it, it does provide some background and context for this story.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Shattered Illusions**

When you realise your worst fears have been realised

_And certainties now seem a bit less sure_

_Ideals that at one time seemed idealised_

_Now don't seem so ideal anymore_

_Where once there was order_

_Chaos has been loosed_

_And home-truths like chickens_

_Are coming home to roost_

_Illusions may shatter but memories stay…_

_Anthony Drew, "Good For Nothing"_

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot settled himself comfortably into a Queen Mary wing chair. As he leaned back against the silk brocade upholstery, he tipped his feet up so that his heels rested on a nineteenth century Chinese Nanmu Altar table. It was good to be back in Gotham. He fitted a chunghwa cigarette into a black lacquered Dunhill holder, lit it, and slowly inhaled.

Outside his lavishly appointed office, the patrons of the Iceberg Lounge were cheerfully sampling the liquor, the canapés, and the… other delights for which his nightclub had a reputation. To the jaded socialites and businessmen of Gotham, the club was a fixture of the Midtown restaurant scene. True, its opulence skirted, and often crossed the border, from elegant to gaudy. There were whispered rumours that its buxom hostesses had found ways to supplement their incomes in rooms not generally open to the public. And its diminutive owner had a questionable past and no breeding worth mentioning. On the other hand, the food was excellent, the jazz quartet sublime, and the exorbitant prices heaven-sent to a myriad of young fops out to impress their lady friends. Yes, in an area where restaurants and clubs came and went with shocking regularity, the Iceberg was a lucrative operation, seemingly immune to economic downturn. And, in a city frequently subject to crime waves, no patron had ever been robbed while under the protection of the club's four walls.

Cobblepot chortled to himself as he checked the closed circuit cameras that afforded him a view of his clientele. _Nobody would **dare** attack my customers here. Nor me either, for that matter. _He frowned. _Nobody but the Bat, at any rate and he hasn't—_

"He's out there!"

Cobblepot sat up so quickly that the heels of his shoes scratched the veneer of the coffee table. The man who stood quaking before him had, at least, known to enter via the side door in the alley. He bent forward, clutching the back of a Louis Quatorze chair for support as he tried to catch his breath.

With a sniff, the Penguin set down the cigarette holder, crossed to the wall, and opened a bar fridge. _San Pellegrino? Acqua Panna_? He frowned. _Not for this lout_. He closed the fridge, walked over to the sink, and ran cold water into a disposable plastic cup. "Here."

With a shaking hand, his visitor accepted the cup and downed the water. Much to Cobblepot's dismay, he sat down heavily in the chair. "He's out there, Penguin," the man repeated.

"Calm yourself, my good man," Cobblepot snapped. He waited for the man to stop shaking. "Now tell me."

His guest drew a deep breath. "We were in the Diamond District, casing the shop you told us abou—"

At the Penguin's frown, the man hastily amended: "W-we were window-shopping boss. And we thought we'd found something that would interest you, so we was trying to get it—"

Cobblepot rolled his eyes. He could see where this was going. "And he intervened?"

"Th-that's right, Penguin. He caught the others but I got away."

_Did he?_ Oswald Cobblepot, known to the Gotham underworld as 'The Penguin', brought his monocle swiftly to his eye. He pointed toward an antique brass credenza with a copper decorative swag and vine motif, on which a several crystal decanters stood. "Sherry?" He asked solicitously.

The man blinked at the sudden change in Penguin's demeanor. "Su-sure, boss. Thanks."

Cobblepot beckoned him over and poured out a glass. "Tell me, my good fellow," he said sharply, "did the Batman lay a hand on you at any time?"

His henchman shook his head. "He tried, Penguin, but I was too fast for him." He laughed. "He was gonna grab my coat 'n I just ducked an' kept running."

_To me_, Cobblepot thought. "Romelly," he said, "I believe you have a thread loose on that blazer of yours." At Romelly's blank stare, he continued, "here. Allow me." Quickly he ran his hand over the fabric, scowling as his finger snagged something smooth and metallic that did not belong on the jacket. With one finger, he flicked off the tracer. "I believe I'll pour myself another drink," he remarked.

"Another?" Romelly blinked. "You haven't taken a first one."

As his right hand closed on the decanter, Penguin's left index finger found the silent alarm on the wall behind the credenza. He pressed it. And then, with one fluid motion, he raised the decanter (a knockoff of a Gorham Lady Anne design that he kept on hand for these emergencies) and hurled it at Romelly.

"What're you doing?" Romelly shouted as he tried to dodge. The crystal bottle clipped him on the shoulder.

Cobblepot ignored his cry of shock. "Thief!" He screeched. "Thief! Take what you want, and get out! Help! Police!"

Romelly backed away, eyes wide, shaking his head. Both doors to the office, the one from which Romelly had entered, and the one that led out to the lounge area, burst open and GCPD officers poured in.

The Penguin pretended not to notice and continued to call loudly for assistance, until two police officers rushed over to calm him down. "Oh, thank heaven you've arrived, officers," he burst out then. "It was ghastly, simply ghastly."

"I'm sure it was, Mr. Cobblepot." The officer whipped out a pad and pen. "Are you able to give us a statement, now?"

* * *

The officers had barely been gone ten minutes when a pricking sensation at the back of his neck told Cobblepot that he was not alone in the room.

"That was a good trick," a harsh voice grated.

Oswald didn't turn around. "I haven't the foggiest notion what you're talking about."

"Of course not," Batman said mockingly. "You're a humble businessman."

"And proud of it," Cobblepot taunted. "Funny how you're always on hand for a purse snatching, but let a legitimate business get burglarised and suddenly you're nowhere to be found."

The costumed crime-fighter paused. "You know, Ozzie," he said, "you actually do have a point."

Cobblepot spun to face him. "Eh?"

Batman nodded dolefully. "I've been remiss, and for that I deeply apologise."

Penguin frowned. Batman… never apologised. Where was the catch?

"You see, Ozzie," he continued, "I'll admit I've had some suspicions about this club in the past. But I never should have let those suspicions influence my judgement." He nodded again. "From this night forward," he intoned, "I promise you that I will be keeping an especially close eye on this establishment."

Cobblepot's jaw dropped. He felt suddenly faint.

Seemingly oblivious, Batman continued, "in fact, you can rest assured that going forward, no potential criminal will be able to enter or leave these premises without my knowledge." He laid a gloved hand on the perspiring little man's Armani tuxedo. "I'll be watching out for you from now on, Ozzie," he said, fighting a smile. "Count on it."

* * *

Barbara's voice came through the cowl receiver, slightly amused. "Was that nice?"

"Nice?" Dick repeated. "Batman doesn't do 'nice'."

"Well, no… but he never used to do evil incarnate, either."

Silence.

"OK, he never used to do that _brand_ of evil incarnate." She laughed.

"Ozzie had it coming."

"He did that." She knew the answer to her next question, but she still asked it. "What next, Current Bat-Wonder?"

Batman's flippant mood vanished. "Arkham," he said. "I want to see how Bruce is doing."

Oracle shook her head sadly. He knew that she'd interfaced the security cameras in Bruce's cell. He knew that she always had that link up, and that she checked it more frequently than she did Joker's. He knew that if he'd asked her for an update she would have told him that there had been no change. But even had she volunteered the information, she knew that it wouldn't have made a difference; Dick would still have wanted to head over to Arkham. It might make a difference for Bruce.

* * *

He didn't know how long he had been here. Without a calendar, he couldn't be sure of the date. With a calendar, the days would still be identical: therapy sessions blurring into each other, meals that, despite some menu variation, still possessed a sameness. Sometimes breakfast was a muffin. Other times it might be a roll or a danish. But it was always something that could be eaten without the benefit of cutlery. It was the same with lunch and dinner: the sandwich fillings varied, the inclusion of sandwiches on the bill of fare, to the virtual exclusion of all other options, did not.

He supposed that he could have complained. But really, what was the point? They knew who he was. They weren't about to allow him access to anything that he might be able to use as a means of escape. In a way, Bruce supposed, it was almost flattering. If they thought he could use plastic cutlery to somehow pry the hinges off of his door, or to scoop the mortar out from between the cinderblock walls of his cell, in full view of the security cameras that monitored every inch of his quarters… He shook his head, bemused, half-wondering what Jeremiah would make of his sudden movement. Or that new doctor of his… was it a new doctor? He'd lost count.

He'd gone through a slew of them already, it seemed. Some genuinely wanted to help. Others, he suspected, wanted the celebrity associated with being "Batman's shrink". Still others seemed to have been Peter-principled into their positions, and viewed their patients as a necessary evil in order to collect a paycheque. And then, there were those that led Bruce to conclude that nepotism had to be alive and well in Arkham—that or mob connections—because there was no other way that some of these doctors could be licensed. In actuality, though, it didn't matter. He treated them all the same way: by ignoring them.

Promptly at 10 a.m., five days per week—he guessed that it was probably Monday through Friday, but he really wasn't sure at this point—the attendants bundled him into a wheelchair and escorted him to a therapy session. (True, he no longer needed a cane, but he had determined to resist any and all efforts to 'cure' him. That included walking to the sessions under his own power. Administration preferred wheeling him to the sessions over dragging him there.) It was always a toss-up whether the doctor would allow him to remain in the chair, or insist that the attendants transfer him to the couch. Whatever the therapist's choice, Bruce would sit, head lowered, eyes closed, hands on his lap, and pay no further attention to his surroundings.

After about ten minutes of this behaviour, most doctors would attempt to provoke a reaction. They would cajole, shout, one had even jerked his head up and backhanded him. Bruce still remembered the sudden fear in that doctor's eyes when he realized what he had done and nervously backed away. The doctor needn't have worried. Once he released him, Bruce had simply lowered his head again and sat calmly, waiting out the rest of the hour. He never saw that doctor again.

He knew that Dick was right. If he worked with the doctors, there was an excellent chance of another competency hearing—one he would probably pass. That presupposed, of course, that he wanted to pass the hearing. It presupposed that he wanted to leave. He didn't. His own failures had brought him here. This was where he belonged. _If only everyone would just leave him alone and stop trying to help him_! He had to be here. After Alfred, after Jim, after more than a decade of seeing people hurt—or worse—because of his actions, this was the right place for him. He wasn't going to fight it… so why did everybody else?

He'd been asking himself this question for ages, it seemed. Meanwhile, he went through the motions. He ate, he exercised, he attended his therapy sessions, he slept, and he told himself that this was neither more nor less than he deserved. In his mind, he repeated this to himself continually, as he set about accepting his current situation. When the doctor struck him, he accepted it. When his grilled cheese sandwich was ice-cold by the time it came to him, he accepted it. When Tim came to tell him that between working on his grades—he was in his senior year, now—and keeping a lid on crime in Gotham, he wasn't going to be dropping by as often, he accepted it. He accepted it all. Freely. Willingly.

Then, understandably, boredom set in.

* * *

"Hi, Bruce. How'd it go today?"

Dick. Of course. He rarely missed a day—and when he did, he always made sure that someone else came in his place. It was one more part of the routine: within the last hour before lights out, Dick would come by. Bruce never acknowledged his presence; in fact, he usually made a point of having his face turned away from the mesh-screened window that faced out into the corridor.

Dick waited for a moment, as though he expected Bruce to reply. He never did, of course. That was also part of the routine.

"Listen, about tomorrow night. I bought the roses, but I just wanted to double-check the time."

Roses. He kept his eyes closed. He hadn't realized that it was coming up on _that_ anniversary.

"Was it 8:43?"

He had to hand it to the younger man. It was an excellent question, one meant to elicit a response. Except, of course, that Dick had to already know the time of his parents' murder. A grandfather clock in the main study concealed the stairway leading from the manor to the cave. In order to access that stair, one was required to position the hands of the clock to 8:25. Dick knew that.

"Things have changed a bit at the manor," Dick's tone was guarded. Bruce could appreciate that. Although the guards withdrew enough to allow them a measure of privacy, the conversation—or monologue, to be exact—almost _had_ to be monitored. "I guess you can probably figure out that after they arrested you, the cops searched the manor for evidence. They kept coming back—they never found anything they could use—but a lot of things got moved around. I haven't been up to the house for months, now."

Bruce translated automatically: his team had sprung into action to hide as much evidence of his activities as Batman as they could. If the clock still existed, Dick wasn't using it. Either he was accessing the cave from one of the other entrances, or he wasn't using the main cave at all. It was plausible. Even likely.

Still, as much as he appreciated Dick's gesture, the fact remained: placing roses in Crime Alley on the night of the year on which Thomas and Martha Wayne died was one of his traditions, but it was a duty that he had taken upon _himself_. It _was_ good of Dick to let him know that the tradition would be upheld despite Bruce's inability to fulfil it. In the larger scheme of things, though, did it really matter whether Dick was 20 minutes late?

Dick continued to talk softly, as Bruce felt his eyelids grow heavier. By the time the light switched off at nine P.M., he was sound asleep.

The younger man waited another moment. "Well, goodnight, Bruce," he said finally. "I'll see you tomorrow." There was no hint of sorrow in his voice or on his face until he was safely off the asylum grounds. Then, he pulled over to the side of the road, and clutched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Until the ridges of the wheel rim felt like they had engraved their imprint on his hands.

Once he had attained a measure of control, he drove back to the nearby satellite cave where he had parked the _other_ car. Automatically, he exchanged his street clothes for a fresh suit. The night was still young. And the city still needed Batman. _And until things are different, it's still stuck with me.

* * *

_

The next day proceeded as usual. Another muffin. Another pointless therapy session. Then back to his cell. After lunch, Bruce paced relentlessly from door to wall and back. He'd been doing so for months to build up his healing broken leg, and although the exercise was no longer necessary, the truth was that there wasn't much else for him to do. He had no contact with the other inmates. For his own protection, his cell was located well away from the rest. In theory, he could still use the lounge or sit outside at specified times when the other patients were elsewhere. In practice, though, he had lost those privileges long ago. So, he paced. He wasn't sure how long he'd been at it when the cell door opened and Jeremiah Arkham strode in. Bruce continued his approach to the wall, turned, and would have continued back to the door, but the director moved into his path. Without a word, as though he'd been planning to stop anyway, Bruce sat down on the bed, waiting.

"Well," Arkham stated without preamble, "I suppose I should congratulate you. Dr. Murakami has advised me that she's stepping down as your primary therapist. So, how many does this make, now, Mr. Wayne? Nine? Twelve?"

Bruce was silent. Jeremiah could go on like this for awhile, and it was easier just to let him rant. Of course, there were things that he might have _liked_ to say, had he not previously decided on a campaign of passive resistance.

Arkham leaned in closer. "I'll tell you how many it's been, Bruce."

_My friends call me 'Bruce'. You are NO friend of mine._

"In the last eleven months, you have gone through no fewer than fourteen of my staff. Even The Joker hasn't approached that record."

_That would be because you've never managed to hold on to Joker for anything approaching eleven months._

Jeremiah sighed. "I told you when you first arrived, the more cooperative your behaviour, the easier you would find your stay here. Surely you would agree that your actions have been, ahem, somewhat less than cooperative?"

_You seem to be labouring under the misconception that I'm looking for an easy time, here._

He made a show of consulting his clipboard. "Well, Bruce," he feigned dismay, "it would seem I've no choice but to take some disciplinary action."

_Try to imagine how little that disturbs me._

"Now let's see. We've already rescinded your lounge privileges…"

_I've lost the right to sit on a couch in an empty room and watch an hour of television. I'm devastated._

"…Your yard privileges…"

_See above. Substitute 'stone bench' for 'couch', 'yard' for 'empty room', and 'grass grow' for 'hour of television'._

His imagined replies continued in this vein as Jeremiah's voice rose in pitch and volume. His very silence seemed to infuriate the director all the more. Suddenly, his ears pricked up. What had Arkham just said?

"That's right, Bruce," Arkham repeated. "Tomorrow morning you will have _another_ new doctor. If you remain as uncooperative as you have been until now, you will be barred from receiving visitors until such time as _I_ deem fit. The decision rests with you." He spun on his heel and strode out. The door shut behind him.

It hadn't slammed. Bruce had to give him some points for that. _The visits_, he thought to himself. _No_.

The security guard who monitored the cell cameras noticed nothing amiss. Had he known what to look for, however, he would have seen fists trembling in the patient's lap, not with fear, but with rage.

_The visits_, he thought again. _Damn him!_


	2. Chapter 2: Close Every Door

_Close every door to me  
Hide all the world from me  
Bar all the windows  
And shut out the light_

_Just give me a number  
Instead of my name  
Forget all about me  
And let me decay  
I do not matter  
I'm only one person  
Destroy me completely  
Then throw me away…_

_Tim Rice, "Close Every Door"_

* * *

A/N: Thanks to Char and Debbie for the beta! 

A/N: "Close Every Door" written by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber. From _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_, Copyright 1982 by Chrysalis Records.

* * *

**Close Every Door**

Bruce sat on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest. He'd thought everything was covered. He'd gone into Arkham expecting the worst, and for the most part, he hadn't been disappointed. Over the months, as his 'privileges' fell by the wayside, he hadn't cared. He had deliberately forced himself not to care. If he didn't care, he couldn't be hurt—not in any meaningful way. _Damn him!_ Bruce thought again.

He'd never asked for them to come. Perhaps he should have expected it anyway, but expectations only served to set a person up for more disappointment. He'd convinced himself that he didn't care. If Dick wanted to pay his nightly call, that was Dick's prerogative. In no way had Bruce requested that he do so, nor had he even acknowledged that Dick did. Over time, Bruce knew that if he didn't do anything to encourage those visits, they would happen less frequently, until they stopped entirely.

Except they hadn't. Oh, Dick missed a night here or there. When that happened, it would be Jim on the other side of his window. Barbara sometimes accompanied her father; she never came to Arkham on her own. Bruce could understand that. Renee Montoya came often enough, usually earlier in the day. Tim had shown up regularly, at least until his homework schedule had grown too intense. Cassandra was more of a rarity, but in her case, Bruce reasoned that it was harder to find a plausible explanation for her to be connected with either Batman or Bruce Wayne. (The fact that Tim had been his neighbor for a time, and that he had lived at the manor while Jack Drake lay critically ill, had probably sufficed in his case.) In the months since his initial arrest, Bruce reflected, he didn't think that he'd passed a full twenty-four hours without some contact from his… family. That's what they were. Bound to him by ties stronger than blood. And now, Jeremiah stood poised to sever those bonds.

_Damn him!_

He couldn't give in, couldn't let himself be broken. Not by the likes of Jeremiah Arkham. Others had tried, in the past: Deacon Blackfire, Bane, Hugo Strange. Even Stephen Gallagher had come close.

No more. He wouldn't give Jeremiah the satisfaction of seeing him toe the line. He was here, and he accepted it. But he wasn't going to play in to Arkham's… medical fantasies of behavior modification. The man had actually tried to create a _progress chart_—rows of empty boxes waiting to be filled by gold stars—so that Bruce could "see how much closer he was to earning another privilege." The director had been perfectly serious. It was at once laughable and humiliating. Once Bruce proved uncooperative, Jeremiah had switched to 'negative reinforcement' and begun to rescind privileges. In the unlikely event that he ever did get out of here, Bruce made a mental note to research whether B.F. Skinner had been the asylum director's personal mentor.

_If he got out_. For a moment, he felt a twinge of regret. If he cooperated a bit more, release wasn't at all unlikely, but… no. He wasn't going to give them any more control over his life than they already had. If he buckled on one point, it would be that much harder to resist on the next. Eventually, they would win. And he couldn't let that happen. Which meant—

Bruce closed his eyes and let his head drop to his knees. It meant that tonight was probably the last time that he would see Dick. Ever.

* * *

"Mr. Richard Grayson?" 

Dick looked up from his computer screen, mentally setting aside the press release that he had been proofreading. "That's me," he smiled broadly as he extended his hand.

The man standing in the doorway strode into the small office. Instead of shaking Dick's hand, he slipped a manila envelope into it. "You've just been served," he stated. Then he turned on his heel and marched off without a backwards glance.

Dick wondered how the man had gotten in. He must have tailgated, or something. It wasn't that hard to get past the security guard at the main desk, as long as you looked like you knew where you were going.

He sighed. He'd been following the story in the newspapers for the last few months. He'd known that this was coming. Carefully he opened the envelope and extracted the enclosed civil summons and complaint. His eyes widened at the amount. Sure, as Bruce's Power of Attorney, he could get it in a matter of minutes. But… he tried to wrap his mind around the figure named on the foremost sheet of paper. _That's more than three times my trust fund. If every person in China contributed one dollar, it still wouldn't match this amount. With my current salary, I'd have to work…_ he did some rapid calculations. _It would take me over seven hundred seventy thousand **years** to earn this on my own. Holy—!_

He checked the time. He was due for a break in ten minutes. Jaw clenched, he turned back to his monitor. Over the last year, he'd done everything he could to stress that he'd landed in the media relations office of Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises due to his aptitude, and not due to his being the son of the former CEO and being on friendly terms with the current one. For the most part, he'd been successful. He still suspected, rightly or wrongly though, that were he to leave his desk ahead of schedule, or were he found to be making a personal phone call on company time, people would notice.

For the umpteenth time, he wondered what he was doing here. He didn't need the money. And an entry-level position in media relations wasn't really that interesting. Mostly, it involved proofreading, filing, and general grunt-work. He worked with a decent enough group of people, but that in and of itself wasn't enough to hold him here. He supposed that he was trying to keep an eye on things for Bruce—working where he was, he was privy to a lot of press releases and it was easy to keep tabs on what the other areas of the company were up to, without being obvious about it. And trust fund or no trust fund, the life of a 'professional socialite' had never held much appeal for him. The truth was, he wanted a day job, and there were worse places to work than PMWE.

Dick forced his attention back to the document on his screen. The page looked cluttered. Maybe if he went with a narrower font, reduced the size by a half-point… he printed a copy and nodded with satisfaction. That was better.

And the ten minutes had passed.

He saved the changes, and dropped the hardcopy into his supervisor's in-basket as he headed for one of the courtesy phone booths down the hall. Once inside, he dialed a number from memory.

"Rachel Green, please," he stated firmly. "Tell her it's Mr. Grayson."

* * *

"Oh no you don't," Barbara muttered as she stabbed a button on her keyboard. 

"Problem?" Jim Gordon entered bearing two steaming mugs of coffee. "Black, no sugar, not too strong, right, sweetheart?"

She inhaled the aroma of the French roast. "That's perfect, thanks, Daddy." She accepted the mug gratefully, and set it down on a small stand, a safe distance from her consoles.

She frowned. "No, it's nothing really. Just my pet hacker."

"Your—"

Barbara's fingers flew as she typed instructions into the computer. "Every so often, someone tries to break into my systems. All the security levels in here, they probably think this is a top-secret government site or something. Usually, I just give them something boring to find, like old census reports, and they go away. This guy…" she shook her head. "He keeps digging. So, if I can't delude him… ah!" A new image appeared on the screen before her. "I'll divert him."

Gordon leaned over with obvious interest. "Where are you sending him?"

"Hellenic ministry of culture," she smirked. "He's looking for an Oracle. I'll show him where to find one." She pressed the enter key. "And then," she said as she typed additional instructions, "I'll fix it so he'll have to find another way in, next time."

Gordon started to smile. Then he froze. "Barbara," he said slowly, "it's been my understanding that you've kept an extremely tight rein on the number of people who even know of the existence of Oracle. Who is this person?"

Barbara sighed, annoyed at her slip. "I can handle him."

"I'm sure you can. Who is he?"

She groaned inwardly. Her father wasn't going to back off from this. "His name is Noah Kuttler. He also goes by 'Calculator'."

Gordon had heard of him. "Well, I'd hardly class him as a serious threat," he said, more than a little relieved.

"He's not. Not physically, anyway. More," to her irritation, she felt her face grow hot. "He's obsessed with me." At Gordon's start forward, she shook her head. "Not in a psycho-stalker kind of way. I doubt he's got some… some shrine in his bedroom dedicated to me, or anything like that. He's just… fixated on finding out who Oracle is." She cupped her hand around the mug of coffee, noting with satisfaction that it should now be cool enough to drink without burning her tongue. "Hey, the US government's been trying to do that for awhile," she said glibly, as she raised the mug and took a sip. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"Where is he?" Gordon demanded.

"Right now?" She typed up some more commands. "Right now the signal's coming from Fayetteville, Georgia."

"I can make some calls," he started to say, as Barbara cut him off.

"But it's been relayed there from Bangkok. We can follow the trail further back to Cape Town, Happy Harbor, Edmonton…"

"You're saying you can't trace it."

"I'm saying that by the time I do trace it, he'll have moved on." She sighed. "If it helps, I'm about as crazy about the fact that he's trying to track me down as you are, Daddy. But I can tell you this: he is NOT going to find me."

Gordon's eyebrows knitted together. "I don't like this. At all. Look. I know the League split up, but would you at least ask for some protection? Surely you know how to get in touch with them."

"I will not," Barbara retorted. "Haven't you been listening to a word I've said? I know this guy. He's good, but I can deal with him. I've been dealing with him for the last eight months."

"Eight… months? And he's not behind bars, yet?" Gordon fired back angrily.

In her head, Barbara counted to ten slowly. "No," she enunciated. "He is not behind bars for the same reason that Dick wouldn't dial 911 if he caught the man trying to break into the Bat-Cave. There are too many secrets involved that I won't risk compromising."

"Then, use your other contacts. Surely Superman could…"

"NO! Superman couldn't!" She snapped. "Daddy, don't you see? If I needed a mountain moved, you'd better believe I'd call on him. Or Green Lantern. But I don't. Calculator is a hacker. An extremely good hacker, yes. But at the end of the day, that's it. And when it comes to handling cyber-crime, Daddy, I _am_ right up at the top of the totem pole." Softly, she continued. "When it comes to something like this, Daddy, Superman calls_ me_."

Behind thick glasses, Gordon's eyes widened. He hadn't realized. "If he comes near you…"

"He won't."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "He'd _better_ not."

* * *

"Hey, Bruce." Dick sat down on the stool before the mesh-screened window as the two guards on duty retreated to the back of the room. The surveillance cameras and microphones were still functioning, of course. All the same, he appreciated the gesture. "I know it's earlier than usual. I figured I'd stay here for about an hour, and then head out so I can make it to Park Row in time." 

Bruce didn't reply. At this point, he doubted that Dick expected it.

"Anyway, it's been a long day. We're all set to unveil the new R&D division next week, so I've been busy with the press releases."

This was it. This was the last time that Dick would be permitted down here. After tomorrow morning, Jeremiah would make good on his word, and the visits would be a thing of the past.

"Lucius has been walking around shaking his head for the last few weeks. Ever since they voted to name it 'Foxteca'."

He lay on his side, his back to the window as always. In his more honest moments, he admitted that it was probably cowardice. He didn't want to meet his son's eyes. It would be too painful for both of them. He'd caused Dick enough distress over the years. And Bruce couldn't afford to allow whoever was monitoring the security feeds to know how easily he could be hurt. If they had known… _If Jeremiah had any inkling, he would have stopped the visits a long time ago_, he realized. Maybe that would have been better. If Dick and the others had stopped coming by after he'd been moved to Arkham, he wouldn't have built up those visits in his own mind as something to look forward to. Because that was what had happened. Despite his best efforts, they had come to matter. And losing them was going to hurt.

"Anyway, Babs found out about this specialist in Ivytown who's been making some breakthroughs in special ed. She's spoken with him a few times over the last couple of months, and it sounds like he might have some ideas on how to get Cass reading. They're flying down on Tuesday for a couple of days."

Bruce closed his eyes. This was the last time he was going to see Dick. And he hadn't even looked at him. Slowly, he sat up.

"It's been frustrating for her," Dick continued. "I know it has been, but," he froze.

"Bruce?" He watched, disbelievingly as the older man slowly extended his fingers toward the mesh screening. Tentatively he reached back. "Bruce."

He jumped back involuntarily as Bruce's other hand slammed into the screen.

* * *

Dick backed away from the window. Behind him, he heard someone call…

"Chlorpromazine, 25 c.c.'s intramuscular. Stat!"

He shook his head, wondering what had just happened. He'd thought… "No," he said. "Let me go in there."

One of the guards snorted. "You've got to be kidding me. There's no way you're getting that close to him when he's…"

Dick whirled angrily. "He hates being medicated, damn it! I can calm him down." It occurred to him, as he advanced toward the orderly, that he was scarcely behaving rationally himself. If he kept up like this he really _would_ be sharing a cell with… G-d, had he done something that had inadvertently set Bruce off? _Get a grip, Grayson_, he told himself_. Fat lot of good you'll do Bruce if they decide your coming here is too upsetting for him._ He realized that he'd automatically shifted to a combat stance. Slowly, he relaxed it.

"Please," he said, as he spread his hands wide and held them out, palms up. "Let me try."

The guard cocked his head to one side, and said nothing. In the background, Bruce was still pounding on the screen. Dick flinched as he heard the blows connect. "Please." He heard the supplication in his voice. He didn't care.

"Let him go in."

Dick turned to the new voice.

"Dr. Morgenstern, according to Wayne's file, we—"

"Duly noted," the other man returned. "This is on my authority." He glanced at Dick.

"Alex Morgenstern," he said. "Mr. Wayne's new doctor. You have five minutes to get him to calm down. If you can't, we'll have to step in."

Dick nodded. "Thanks." He meant it, too.

The guard wasn't backing down. "Doctor, if he slips Mr. Wayne something—"

"Yes, Nilsen. I'm sure he's got a lock pick tucked into his left sneaker on the off chance somebody might let him into the cell tonight," Morgenstern retorted. "And I'm positive that the cameras wouldn't notice if Mr. Wayne were to attempt to use it. Now get that door unlocked."

He looked at Dick. "You weren't planning on slipping him anything, were you?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Good enough for me."

Dick shook his head, grinning as the massive door grated open just wide enough to allow him entry. He heard it slam shut behind him, but by then he was already well inside the cell.

Bruce took no notice, as he continued to vent his rage on the window.

For an instant, Dick hesitated. Then he launched himself at Bruce from behind, wrapping his arms around Bruce's upper body, pinning the older man's arms to his sides.

Like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly cut, Bruce collapsed, letting Dick pull him from the window and ease him to a sitting position on the bed. Then, without relinquishing his hold on the larger man, he sat down next to him to wait.

* * *

Bruce _knew_ that facing the window had been a mistake. Tomorrow, Jeremiah would tell Dick… what? Probably that further visits were 'not advisable' at the present time. And maybe, if Bruce hadn't just reacted to his son's presence, Dick would have bought it. But now… 

…Now, more than ever, these ties were a weakness. If he gave in on this matter, then he was handing Jeremiah the key that would crack his defenses. Once Arkham knew what the visits meant, the director would use that knowledge to force him to conform. In future, Jeremiah would threaten to withhold his visitation privileges at the slightest hint of recalcitrance. Bruce felt a sudden surge of anger. At himself, at Jeremiah, and yes, even at Dick. Dick had been too stubborn to stay away, and now, because of that…

He slammed his fist into the screen. He noted in passing that the wires had cut into his knuckles. He barely felt them. He saw Dick's eyes widen. _I'm scaring him. Good. Now, maybe he'll stay away. That'll stop Jeremiah and his damned threats!_ That was the last conscious thought he had, as he surrendered to the roaring in his head and blindly pummeled away at the mesh. He stopped only when something pinned his arms to his sides. They would have sent Dick away by now, he was sure. He allowed them to tear him from the window, and he sank unresisting to the bed, steeling himself for the inevitable sedative.

* * *

Awareness returned slowly. Bruce found that he was sitting on the bed. There appeared to be a band of some kind, fastened just above his elbows, which pinned his upper arms to his sides but left his forearms free. That was odd, he realized. He'd never heard of any restraints like that being used in institutions. It didn't constrain mobility anywhere near enough to be effective. _Yes, Bruce. Be sure to tell the staff of better ways to keep you shut in here, why don't you?_

He looked down, and blinked. That wasn't a band…! Hesitantly his head turned to the side. _It couldn't be._ Dick was kneeling behind him on the bed, his arms wrapped around Bruce's upper torso. His eyes were shut, and he appeared to be asleep. _Right. Not in that position, he wasn't._ Bruce attempted to flex his arms. Immediately, Dick loosened his grip, stretching both arms above his head and opening his mouth in an exaggerated yawn.

"Oh, hey, Bruce," he said casually. "I guess I must've dozed off, or something. Sorry. It was just taking awhile for you to come around."

"Y-" To his horror, the barely audible sound that issued from his lips was midway between a wheeze and a croak. He grimaced and tried again. "You're…" Now, it was a hoarse whisper. That was better, somewhat. "You… are… NOT… supposed… to… be… in… here."

If Dick was surprised to hear him speak, he gave no sign. He just smiled. "Weeellll… they did say I had to be crazy to get in. I told them I've been coming here and talking to you almost every night for nearly a year, and you've never even looked at me. Once they heard that, they couldn't _wait _to get the door open."

_Very funny_. He had to make Dick angry enough not to keep coming. Jeremiah couldn't abolish a privilege if Bruce got rid of it first. He'd forgotten one of the earliest lessons he'd taught Dick: _It's foolish to rely on something that can be taken away from you_. He tried again. "Go. You… don't belong… here."

Dick sighed, as his smile dimmed. "That makes two of us."

He'd taught the boy how to be a detective. Why was he missing such obvious hints?

Bruce pursed his lips. He knew what he had to do next. _Hurt him. Say whatever I have to say to make him angry enough to storm out of here and never want to return. It shouldn't be that hard. When he confronted me in the cave, after I'd buried Jason, it was so… easy to lash out. I'd lost one son, then. I thought it would be… easier…if I drove away the other one before I had to lose him, too._ He hunched forward. _Years ago, I lost my parents on this night. Do I really have to lose my son, too? _He knew the answer, unfortunately. _If I don't want Jeremiah to win, then yes. That's exactly what I have to do. _

Dick chose that moment to squeeze his forearm. He flinched.

_I can't do that to him. If he hadn't been coming all this time, I… I really think I **would** be mad by now. What difference does it make? Whether I drive him away or Jeremiah keeps him away, the result is the same. Except… if I push him off, he won't try to come back. And Jeremiah will have one less thing to hold over me. If I know he won't be back, I can move on. But the uncertainty…But to lose him… I have to. I can't let Jeremiah win. I can't. I can't. I can'tIcan'tIcan't…_

"I can't," Dick heard him mumble. "I can't. I can't…"

"Bruce." Instinctively, one arm wrapped around the bigger man's shoulders. Bigger? He blinked. Taller… yes. But in the months that had passed since his arrest, Bruce had lost weight and muscle mass, and Dick's arm, which had once had to stretch to reach across Bruce's shoulder blades, now encompassed them easily.

Bruce seemed not to notice. "I can't," he repeated. "I can't…"

Dick extended his other hand and laid it gently over Bruce's. "Sh… sh… it's okay," he murmured.

Bruce gave no indication that he had heard.

Dick pulled him closer. "It's okay," he repeated. "You just do what you can. It's okay. Really. I've got you. It's okay."

What he… could? What was that? He didn't want to lose Dick, but he couldn't let Jeremiah win. So, how… _how, in his most convoluted reasoning, could he **possibly** consider losing the visits to be **winning?**_ Was he insa—he glanced furtively at his surroundings and decided not to complete the thought. This was like—a childhood memory surfaced—this was the equivalent of knocking down his own sandcastle at the beach because he saw a group of bullies running around knocking down everyone else's. If the visits were that important to him, then… he should be fighting to_ keep_ them.

And, in this case, fighting meant giving in. He placed his free hand over Dick's and squeezed. The arm around his shoulders tightened. Bruce didn't say anything further, but he did relax. He could afford to, for now. Dick was there.

Some time later, the door swung open, and a doctor, a different doctor than the one who had authorized Dick to enter the cell, strode in flanked by two guards. "I'm sorry," he said, "but that light is going off in five minutes." He looked at Dick. "You'll have to go now."

Dick glanced at Bruce. Bruce nodded. "I'll… be… alright. Go on."

The doctor's eyebrows shot clear up to his hairline. But all he did was check Bruce's pulse. "This is steady," he said. "No need for sedation at this time."

Dick grinned. "I've been telling him about HSN's primetime lineup. Works wonders. Good night, Bruce."

Bruce frowned. Before Dick left, he had to be sure of one thing. Because if his assumption was wrong, if he was going to give in on this point, for no reason, then… "Dick? You're… you ARE… coming to… morrow?"

He was already nearly at the door, but he quickly strode back. "You know it," he said emphatically.

A faint smile flickered on Bruce's lips for an instant. "I'll… be here." A hand squeezed his shoulder in farewell.

"That's the whole problem, isn't it?" Dick sighed. "Hang in there." He turned to go, then doubled back. "About the flowers. I guess it doesn't matter that they're going to be a couple of hours late?"

Bruce shook his head. "No." _Not in the slightest._

Then Dick was gone, and the doctor and guards with him. And less than a minute later, the light went out, plunging the cell into darkness.

Somehow, though, things felt a bit brighter. He could bend on this one point. To bend was not to break. Tomorrow, he would meet this new doctor, and listen to what he had to say, and tell him what he wanted to hear, and everything would continue. It would be fine. Even, as Dick had phrased it, 'okay'. After all, it wasn't as though he didn't know how to manipulate a situation to his advantage…

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot tipped back the last of his martini, gave the pole-dancers on the stage one last ogle and waddled back to his office. 

Funny. He could have sworn he'd turned out the light.

"Ah," a deep voice intoned smugly. "I see that my calculations were accurate. You _have_ chosen this moment to return."

Penguin whirled, seizing an umbrella from the stand behind the door. "Eh? Who's there?"

The swivel chair behind his desk spun about to reveal a balding man in his middle forties. With a fluid motion, he removed his sunglasses to reveal hazel eyes that darted intently around the room.

"You may call me 'The Calculator'," he said. "I'm here to propose a partnership that should prove profitable for the both of us."

Cobblepot's eyes narrowed. "You're sitting in my seat," he said evenly. "Take one of the wing chairs. The Regency barrel back is probably the most comfortable."

There were eight chairs in the office. Three of them were from the Regency period. Of the eight, five were wing chairs. The man shrugged, got up and walked unerringly to the correct seat. He smirked. "Better?"

Cobblepot adjusted his monocle, nonplussed. "Tell me more about this 'partnership'."


	3. Chapter 3: Settling And Silence

A/N: Thanks to Char and Kalin for the beta! "Once You've Learned to Be Lonely" performed by Reba McIntyre on Room to Breathe, copyright 2003 by Curb Magnasong Music Publishing.

A/N: This fic is running as a monthly serial at the DC2 website (it's the homepage link in my profile). The good news is, I've got 6 chapters completed and am currently about 3 to 4 pages away from finishing 7. The bad news is, in order to avoid spoiling for DC2 readers, I'm only crossposting the chapters on the night that they're slated to post over there. That means I'll be updating with Chapter 4 on the second Tuesday of February. See you then!

_

* * *

Once you've learned to be lonely  
And lonely is the only thing you've known  
It begins to feel like home  
It becomes your comfort zone  
Once you've learned to be without someone  
And settle for the silence of an empty room  
Oh, it changes you  
There's a lot you have to undo  
Once you've learned to be lonely_

_Ray Chip Davis, Candy Cameron, and Sharon Vaughan, "Once You've Learned To Be Lonely."_

* * *

**Chapter 3: Settling and Silence**

"It's a simple matter, Penguin." The Calculator steepled his fingers and leaned forward. "I use my not inconsiderable resources to help you discover the most opportune times to… add to your art collection. I will help you to obtain the most valuable pieces at the lowest possible risk to your body or, ahem, reputation. In exchange, I want you to help me to locate the Oracle."

Penguin blinked. "There might be several pieces by that name," he stated. "I'd need more details from you before I could begin to research the item. For example, is this a classic work? Pre-Raphaelite?" He sniffed. "It's not," he shuddered, "something… modern, is it?"

"You don't have the faintest idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

The comment stung. "I believe I've just said as much, my good fellow. Now are you going to enlighten me, or insult me?"

Calculator sighed. "Normally I wouldn't bother coming to you. You're a primitive man, Cobblepot. You don't even own a computer, let alone an email address. You special order tape cassettes because you won't buy a CD player. And you have to be the only man in existence who owns a wide-screen black and white television set."

"All the truly great cinema was filmed before Technicolor became commonplace. What, might one ask, is your point?"

"Oracle is an… information broker for the so-called 'hero' community. This individual, whosoever she or he might be, has been operating for the last several years. I find that the information that this person is able to procure has been harmful for many of _my_ clients. Now, while a little competition is always good for business, when my best customers find themselves facing long prison terms, I'm sure that even you can appreciate the long-term ramifications for my own enterprises."

Cobblepot sniffed again. "So you want me to eliminate your competitor?"

"Oh, of course not," Kuttler snapped. "I've got at least a dozen people in my circle who would be willing to pay top dollar for that privilege. My problem is that I can't begin to search for this person without alerting her or him to my investigations. The instant I turn on my computer, Oracle is waiting."

"Hmmm. You keep saying 'her or him'." Penguin noted.

"Based on Oracle's behaviour, I calculate a sixty-eight per cent probability that I'm dealing with a woman. I'm not certain, though. Hopefully, that's something you'll find out for me."

Penguin shook his head. "As you noted, I don't even own a computer. What good could I possibly be to you?"

Calculator smiled. "You have contacts that I don't. You have a network of informants that, quite frankly, astounds me, considering that you're able to maintain it without the benefit of modern technology. Oracle's world, like my own, _is_ modern technology. At present, I'm entertaining the possibility that I've become blindsided by my own methods. Essentially, I'm racking my brain to deduce the code to a combination lock, when one of your people might look at it, shrug, and reach for a hacksaw. My way has a certain panache; I won't deny it. But your way might get the lock off the door faster."

"Let's cut to the chase," Penguin said briskly. "What do I get out of it?"

"Thirty per cent of the highest bid for Oracle's location and my services for a year at ten per cent of the profits acquired through the information I supply. I normally charge fifteen."

"You'll take five. And my fee is fifty per cent."

Kuttler smiled. "Every moment we haggle, the Oracle sinks deeper claws into my activities. If you're asking fifty you plan to settle for forty. And I'll work for seven point five per cent. Suppose we dispense with the posturing and bargaining and conclude there?"

Cobblepot adjusted his monocle. "That sounds equitable. Would you care to drink on it?"

"It's only fair to tell you that I neutralized your silent alarm while I was waiting. If, despite that action, your offer's still open, I'm partial to _Chateau Calon Segur_. 1985 was an extremely good year, from what I understand."

The shorter man rose to his feet and spread his hands wide. "Now was that deactivation really necessary?"

"Not by my calculations. But I do try to be thorough." Noah Kuttler smiled as Cobblepot waddled over to the bar and scanned the selections. "Do make sure it's the '85, please."

"But of course," Cobblepot said affably, pouring the wine into a goblet. Four ounces of that vintage was worth twenty dollars. He wondered whether there would be some way to recoup it from his new partner. Interesting how a man with such terrible taste in clothing could have such excellent taste in wines.

* * *

Rachel Green examined the civil complaint with mounting indignation. "After everything he did for the city, in and out of costume," she enunciated, "this is absolutely unreal." She looked across her desk at the young man seated before her. "I can tell you this, Dick: we can fight this… this idiocy. Easily. Post-Quake, Mr. Wayne practically rebuilt this city from the ground up. There are the funds he's set up for victim relief. I'd need to run some totals, but—" 

"Rae," Dick interrupted gently. "I'll pay it."

"I'm sure that over the last decade or so, Mr. Wayne paid into this city a good chunk of the amount they ask—what did you say?"

"You heard me," Dick replied. "Pay them the full amount. If we offer something too low, the press will attack the settlement. I don't want to nickel-and-dime anyone. We have the funds. Let's just deal with it."

Rachel leaned forward. "Dick… do you have any… concept of what the amount they're asking for represents?"

"About twenty-seven per cent of Bruce's assets," Dick nodded. "It threw me at first, also. But then I got to thinking: can Bruce afford to pay that kind of money?"

"He shouldn't have to," Rachel protested. "The only reason they've asked for a settlement this huge is because he has the resources to cover it!"

"And then some," Dick nodded. "That's my point." He saw Rae open her mouth again to argue and pressed on. "Has property been damaged as a direct result of Batman's actions over the years?"

"I'd argue more as a result of _criminal_ activities."

Dick sighed. "And the insurance companies' lawyers can argue that a vigilante _is_ a criminal."

"We can fight that!"

"Yeah, probably," Dick admitted. "We might even win. But meanwhile, this could drag on for years. Rae, I work in media relations now. Do you think I haven't been looking at how the other side can spin this? They can make it look like Bruce's philanthropy was first and foremost because he was looking a tax write-off but now that it's come to taking responsibility for the property damage he caused while he was fighting criminals, he's ready to tie the whole thing up in litigation… You remember when he was accused of murder, what that did to his reputation even after the guilty party actually confessed!"

"But one-point-seven _billion!_" Rachel exclaimed.

Dick nodded. "Property _was_ damaged. The insurance companies _did_ pay out. Big time. You and I both know that the funds are accessible. We pay it, and we give it our own spin… that we're trying to do what's right, above and beyond the letter of the law," he blinked and a smile spread slowly across his face. "After all, that's what Batman's always stood for, isn't it?"

Rachel got up from her desk and moved over to the window. "I don't know," she stated, "whether I ought to shake your hand or have you remanded to Arkham for observation. And I especially don't know why you're bothering to ask me for legal advice when you've already decided what you're going to do."

"I've decided what I _want_ to do," he corrected. "The question is, can I?"

She threw up her hands. "Sure. Of course! You're essentially Bruce's guardian. Technically you can sink his entire fortune into a… a… musical production of _1984_ if you want to. _On ice._ That doesn't mean I recommend it."

Dick's eyes widened. "I'm… Bruce's… _guardian_? I knew I had power of attorney but…"

"That's what it means," Rachel said. "He's not competent to make his own decisions, so you're empowered to do so on his behalf. That makes you his legal guardian."

"And that makes Bruce…" Dick said faintly.

"It makes him your ward," she stated with exaggerated patience. "Getting back to the suit, though, you do have certain other considerations. For example, suppose there are other civil actions in the offing? Before you sign away a sum this sizeable, you really ought to take that into account. I agree that we should settle this and quickly, but not for what they're asking."

Dick's head was spinning. _Bruce is… **my** ward? Holy role reversals!_ He blinked. "Sorry, Rae. What was that, again?"

"Do you trust me?" She repeated.

He nodded. "Sure, but—"

"That's all I needed to hear." Rachel picked up the receiver and dialled a number. "Randolph Hooper, please. It's Rachel Green. Yes, I'll hold."

"What are you…"

"Saving you over seven hundred twelve million. Shush." She motioned him to silence. "Hello, Randy? Rae Green. I'm representing Bruce Wayne's interests in that suit you've just filed." She smiled broadly, letting a bit of cheer leak into her voice. "Have I got good news for you. Here's the deal. We'll give you seven hundred fifty million, take it or leave it. You have one hour to decide, or the deal's off and we'll leave it to the jury. If you agree, I'll draw up the documents and you'll have them signed, sealed, and delivered to you by this time tomorrow. Uh-huh. You do that. One hour."

She replaced the receiver. "He'll take it. I'll word the documents in such a way that we're not admitting liability." She eyed Dick meaningfully. "Because we aren't. We'll… _spin_ this," she smiled, "so that the public knows that we've offered to settle for an amount far exceeding any damages done… let's see, oh, this is perfect! …In an effort to continue Bruce Wayne's philanthropic works and efforts toward the general good of Gotham. Sound good?"

Dick thought about it. "It sounds great but…"

The phone rang. Rachel waited until the third ring to pick up. "Rae Green. Yes, Randy. Ah. I thought you might. Good. Ok, I'll courier the paperwork to you tomorrow. And Randy, the general settlement's confidential. You talk, you lose and the case is still over. Uh-huh. So glad we could come to an understanding so easily. You take care, now."

She was still smiling as she hung up the phone. "There. I've just saved you $712,500,000."

Dick shook his head, confused. "One point seven billion less 750 million is 950 million," he said.

"Less my twenty-five per cent for saving you that 950 mill," Rae returned.

Dick grinned. "How could I have missed that?" He laughed. "Thanks."

"My pleasure."

* * *

As it turned out, Bruce Wayne did not meet with his new doctor the following morning. Circumstances saw to that. He'd woken up shortly before the overhead light switched on for the day. He was somewhat apprehensive, but still resolved. He would at least make a pretence of working with this therapist. Given his behaviour to date, simply making eye contact might suffice for a week or so. He could handle that. 

Bruce drew a deep breath, and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. It had been too long since he'd attempted meditation. It took him a moment to remember the techniques. At first, the sedatives had hindered him. Later… _enough excuses_, he told himself. _They cut the dosage six doctors ago and never increased it. Concentrate_.

His prior experiences with therapy had not been… pleasant. His mind took him back to an earlier time. He'd been watching… what was the name of that show again? _Nightime_. That was it. It was a late-night talk show. Captain James Gordon had been one of the in-studio guests. As had a balding man, introduced as Doctor Hugo Strange. In Strange's analysis, Batman was "obsessed", "paranoid", and "distrustful". Bruce had listened with no small amusement, to the good doctor's ramblings. And then…

_I wouldn't be at all surprised if he or a loved one proved to be a victim of crime… a crime committed in darkness. Indeed, the very genesis of this tormented figure might well be traced back to the traumatic events of a single key night…_

That analysis had hit a little too close to home for Bruce's comfort. And then, a few months later, he'd fallen into the hands of Stephen Gallagher. The man had concocted an elaborate scheme to make Bruce believe that he was a penniless alcoholic, his lives, both as billionaire philanthropist and costumed vigilante, no more than figments of his imagination. Gallagher had worn many masks to keep up the illusion. Most frequently, he'd posed as a psychiatrist…

_What we've got here is classic hysterical neurosis… put simply, you dissociate yourself from your other personalities… You flee into this 'Batman' identity in an attempt to control your world…_

Wrong. Distorted. And yet… there was just enough truth in the analysis to make him uncomfortable. He didn't like anybody coming too close to knowing him. Maybe this discomfort had kept him from opening up to Shondra in the beginning. She had cared. She had been genuinely interested in his well-being. But, she had also told him that they were going to revisit the night of his parents' murder. And then, he had suddenly found reasons to cancel his appointments. Would he have to face those memories now, he wondered. Probably.

Bruce looked down at his hands and found them trembling. _Of all the cowardly… _He envisioned a pond, its surface unruffled. Trees grew around it, arcing their branches heavenward. As he watched, a pair of mallard ducks soaring overhead dove down to land in the water. They paddled contentedly. Bruce allowed himself a rare smile, losing himself in the serenity of the scene before him.

Something grey and furry lunged past him into the water. The ducks raised their wings in preparation for flight. One was too slow. The wolf seized it in his jaws, and shook his prize vigorously back and forth.

Bruce looked away, sickened.

The ground lurched, as a fissure opened by his feet. He scrambled to get clear and leapt back. A tree fell heavily, smashing into the ground where he had just been standing. He gasped and opened his eyes.

He was still shaking, as he heard a voice over the institution's intercom system: _Attention all personnel. We have a code orange, repeat code orange. We are attempting to rectify the situation as quickly as possible. Please remain calm. _

Bruce fought down a wave of panic. Remain calm? What was happening? Why wouldn't anybody tell him anything? How was he supposed to prepare, how could he fight, if nobody gave him the necessary tools? He could help, if someone would just give him the details. Then he could come up with a defence.

He clutched at the wire mesh. "What's going on?" He called.

There was no reply. The outer room was empty. No. No, they couldn't leave him alone, trapped like this. He flung himself at the door. Locked, of course. Did anybody even remember that he was down here? He went cold. What if someone _did _remember he was down here? How many of his enemies were locked up with him? He cast about frantically looking for something that he could use to signal. Or something to use as a weapon. The sparse furniture was bolted to the floor, or attached to the wall. Pillow? _Yes. I'm positive THAT will make Joker think twice about coming in here…_Blanket. He could try flailing it… no, if someone grabbed hold and gave a good yank that would be it. So, what else was there? Nothing. There had to be something. _Think! _It was so hard to concentrate… had they upped his meds, after all?

He sniffed the air. There was an oddly familiar odour… something chemical… he racked his brains trying to remember… What was a 'code orange', again? Something to do with… bombs? No… that was what it meant at Central Hospital, but for Arkham, a 'code orange' meant something else. It meant… hazardous materials spilled or released. It could be Smilex… or… _or_ _fear gas_… **_Scarecrow_**! He must have put something in the ventilation system, Bruce realized. _That_ explained a few things. And if Arkham had declared a 'code orange', then the administration knew what was happening, and it was just a matter of time until they got the antidote into the atmosphere. He just had to hold on until then, and remember that the fear was all in his mind.

It would be easier, Bruce realized, had there been a legitimate reason to fear. Rational fears could be analysed. They could be worked through, perhaps even harnessed and used to maintain a heightened state of awareness. But the fear gas was different. It attacked its victims with irrational, unchecked panic. But there were real, cogent reasons for his terror! He was locked up with at least a dozen people who wanted to kill him, and he was powerless to stop them. If they found him, he was a dead man. If they… why couldn't he suppress this? If his fears were rational, he should be able to handle them. All it took was a strong mind, willpower… his fingernails dug into his palms. They were too short to do any real damage—to him or to anyone else. He shuddered. He _hated_ feeling this helpless.

Bruce bit down, hard, on his lower lip, using the pain to steady him. He _knew_ that his emotional state was induced, that there was probably no cause for alarm. There had been numerous breakouts since his incarceration. No inmate had ever come down here, before. It still took everything he had not to curl into the fetal position. He couldn't control the fact that the gas was affecting him, but he _could_ control his reactions. Barely. He knew, at this point, that it was sheer stubbornness that was keeping him from utterly succumbing to the gas's effects. He didn't care. He had to fight this. He was done with huddling in a corner. _If a year of Jeremiah hasn't broken me, I'll be damned if Crane will!_

And, he froze as a new thought occurred to him, if he was too nervous to leave his cell when the attendants came around with the wheelchair, today, would that be seen as alackof co-operation?Grounds enough to allow Jeremiah to carry out his threat? If Arkham was going to be reasonable, then no, Bruce had nothing to worry about. But if the man was looking for an excuse… Bruce hugged his knees to his chest, and waited.

By nine AM, the worst of the gas's effects had been neutralized. However, because he couldn't be certain how long it would be before everything was back to 'normal'; Jeremiah Arkham took the precaution of cancelling the morning therapy sessions for all patients, and paged those doctors not currently on the asylum grounds to advise to take a day off.

The asylum director removed his eyeglasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Reluctantly, he picked up the telephone and hit a number that he wished he didn't have on speed-dial. "Commissioner Sawyer?" He asked, in response to the low-pitched authoritative voice on the other end. "This is Jeremiah Arkham. Jonathan Crane has escaped."

* * *

Dick was drinking his second coffee of the morning, when he got a call advising him that there was a visitor asking for him at the reception desk. It was probably another reporter, he thought to himself with a sigh. After years away from the circus, he was back to walking a tightrope, albeit a figurative one, nowadays. Currently, he was doing his best to keep media attention focussed on Bruce's circumstances without crossing the line into crass sensationalism. He had to be selective about the interviews he chose to grant. These days he went for quality over quantity. 

"Another Titans groupie looking for an autograph, _Robin_?"

Dick looked up with a grin. "What's the matter, Lyn?" He shot back. "Jealous?" That had happened exactly once. Almost four months earlier. Nguyen still couldn't let it slide.

His co-worker shook his head. "Nah. But if she's good looking, seeing as you're already attached, you can send her my way. C'mon, I haven't had a date in six months. Saving me from a lonely evening would be the heroic thing to do."

"For you, sure. But what about the girl?"

Lyn Nguyen pantomimed being stabbed to the heart. "You'd better go make the public happy," he laughed. "Lucky for you, that's your job description."

Dick nodded. He liked Lyn. He was a genuinely nice guy, who should never _ever _be permitted to make a speech without the assistance of a teleprompter. Left to his own words, the adage about loose lips sinking ships always seemed to be an apt one. On the other hand, he had accepted Dick's background—both as the former Robin and as Bruce's adopted son—without reservation.

"Another break, Grayson?"

Dick sighed. Not everyone he worked with was quite that accommodating. Greg Renssalaer rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me. You saw a jaywalker out your window and you've got to teach him the error of his ways."

"I don't _have_ a window, Greg," Dick reminded him. "Excuse me?"

Renssalaer moved slowly out of his path. "Some of us actually do some work around here, instead of running upstairs to talk to the press, you know."

"And some of us work around here _by_ talking to the press. You have a problem? Take it up with Orczy." He brushed past the other man, knowing that his manager would back him, so long as he had the press releases cleared for distribution by noon tomorrow.

Greg called after him, "Watch yourself, Grayson. You don't qualify for any special consideration these days, you know."

_That_ didn't even deserve the dignity of a response.

* * *

To Dick's surprise, the guest who awaited him was the doctor who had allowed him in to see Bruce yesterday. 

"Mr. Grayson," he smiled, as he shook Dick's hand once, firmly. "Alexander Morgenstern. I apologize for barging in on you like this, but your contact number was in my office, and that's currently inaccessible, so I thought I'd see if I could reach you in person."

Dick's expression turned serious. "Inaccessible?"

Morgenstern quickly filled Dick in on Scarecrow's escape. "I was on my way into work when I got the call," he explained. "Contacting you was on my list of things to do, in any case, so…"

Dick nodded, thinking all the while. Scarecrow was on the loose. Lovely. Well, at least he'd have a chance to pretend to be psychic when the signal went up tonight. He was beginning to see how much Bruce must have enjoyed that. Knowing Commissioner Sawyer, unless Crane himself announced that he was at large, the media would not be informed of the escape for 24 hours. No point in _panicking_ the population.

Morgenstern seemed to realise something. "I'm interrupting your work," he said. "I'm sorry. I could come back another time, or wait for your lunch break?"

Dick looked at his watch. "Let's grab some coffee," he said. "I can spare a few minutes, right now. If it looks like you need more than that, maybe we could schedule something."

"Dick, hello!"

Dick grimaced. The last thing he needed was for Lucius to think that he was goofing off. "Mr. Fox," he said formally, "this is Dr. Morgenstern, from Arkham. He's…"

Lucius nodded. "I was passing by your area, earlier, when I heard someone coughing," he said casually. "I'd hate for that to spread around the office. Just to be on the safe side, why don't you take the rest of the day off?"

Dick did a double take. "I…"

"Would you excuse us a moment, Doctor?" Lucius motioned for Dick to follow him back the way that he had just come. Before Dick could open his mouth, the CEO held up a hand.

"I don't need to hear it. Nor do I want to. If you hadn't sold off Bruce's shares last year, you'd be sitting in his chair right now, and not a soul here would question your comings and goings. Instead, you put the company's interests first. Think of this as 'what goes around comes around', and get out of here."

"I didn't want to ask for special favours," Dick started to say. Grateful though he was, he didn't want to act like the 'boss's son' pulling strings and throwing his weight around.

"Read the employee handbook," Lucius rumbled. "Specifically the sections on emergency days and medical leave. You'll find that those benefits cover both employees and their families. And if a family member's physician shows up at the workplace, unless he's got a bag of golf clubs, I'm willing to categorise the situation as an emergency. Now why are you still here?"

Dick grinned. "I'm trying to gauge how far back I'll need to go to get a running start at the door," he said.

* * *

"I know I thanked you last night, Doctor," Dick said. The two men were sitting in a coffee shop several blocks from the office. "But I just want to say again that I really do appreciate—" 

"Seems to me like I should be the one doing the thanking. Jabbing a man with a needle at our first encounter seemed like the wrong way to make his acquaintance, but offhand, I didn't believe I had a better way to calm him down."

Dick held his palms out, slightly apart. "How can I help you?"

Morgenstern smiled back. "I think you probably have some idea." He flushed slightly. "I apologize. Shrink-speech isn't something I can always turn off at will, I'm afraid. Can we just say I'm almost as eager for there to be an empty cell on Arkham's lower level as you are?"

"Keep talking."

"I've read over the files," the doctor acquiesced, "and I've drawn a few conclusions based on those. Very few," he amended, "seeing as how wildly contradictory some of the diagnoses are."

Dick steepled his hands and balanced their heels on the edge of the table, facing his fingers out toward the doctor. "May I ask…?"

Morgenstern sighed. "I left myself wide open for that one." Self-consciously, his fingers flew to the velvet _yarmulke_ on his head. "I guess you've heard the expression 'two Jews, three opinions'?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think I could actually say it." Dick grinned.

"You can't. I can. Don't you just love political correctness? Well, I realize I'm the fifteenth doctor to get his case, but the number of opinions in there…" he sighed. "Let's see how much I can remember from what I read, yesterday. Depending on who you believe, he's depressed, paranoid, catatonic, and/or schizophrenic. He suffers from dissociative identity disorder, anxiety, and/or post-traumatic stress. He's also faking the whole thing because he thinks it'll be easier to escape Arkham than Blackgate," he held up a hand as Dick started forward angrily.

"I'm finding that one hard to accept, too. At least the, and I'm using the term loosely, 'motivation' mentioned in the report.

Dick relaxed. "So what do you think?"

"Better I should tell you what I don't think: I don't think that there's a thing we could do to keep him in Arkham if he didn't want to be there. My job—ours if you're with me on this—is to make him want to leave." He downed the last of his coffee.

Dick pushed his own mug away. "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

"I heard you had some excitement, before." 

Bruce was sitting up, for once. He lifted his eyes briefly.

"Are you okay?"

A nod.

"Look, Bruce?" Dick pressed one hand against the mesh. Bruce looked up again, his expression unreadable. Dick sighed and continued. "I… can you do me one favor? If it ever sounds like I'm patronising you, stop me. I don't mean to do it, it's just been…"

"Dick." Bruce's hand stretched to meet his. "I… I'm glad you came." _More than you could possibly know. _"But I think I'd rather be alone, tonight." He looked away, but not before he saw the hurt in his surrogate son's eyes. "Surely you have something else you could be doing?"

_Catching Scarecrow_. Dick nodded. He could head out to GCPD a bit earlier. The signal was probably up by now. "If you're positive?"

Silence.

"Okay, Bruce. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

"You don't have to."

Dick let out an explosive breath. "I never _have_ to. Any more than you _had_ to saddle yourself with a kid one night at the circus." He saw Bruce flinch, but continued. "I'm sorry, Bruce. You can yell at me. You can call me every name in the book. You can disown me. Hell, you can even train a _platoon_ of Robins. But don't you ever… _ever_ tell me I don't have to come by here. _You owe me better than that!_"

He braced both hands on the edge of the shelf that projected outward on his side of the wall, and shut his eyes tightly, not sure he wanted to see the other man's reaction. "I will see you tomorrow, Bruce. Take care." He fired off the last two words as a parting shot.

Then he was gone, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts. Presently, he heard an unfamiliar voice.

"It's good he comes by so often. Most of the other patients here don't get much company."

Bruce looked up. He didn't recognise the middle-aged man at his window. He debated holding his peace. On the other hand, praise for Dick was something he could accept with far greater ease than acclaim for his own actions.

"I don't deserve him," he said finally. _I don't deserve his attention. And he does not deserve the pain I've inflicted upon him._

The man looked surprised. "Ever tried telling him that?"

"Repeatedly. He has… selective hearing."

"I get the feeling you don't mind that much."

Silence.

"I've got four boys of my own," his visitor said after a moment. And three girls. "My oldest, Yoni is 15, then there's Sruli. He's 12. P'nina's 11, then comes Yossi, 9, and Daniel, 7. And then there are my youngest girls, Miri and Shira. They're 5 and 4."

"Large family."

"I suppose. Sometimes I wonder whether I deserve them, myself." He smiled. "Of course, on the odd occasion when one of them brings home a poor test grade, I tend to wonder what I did to deserve _that_ as well.

A brief answering smile flickered on Bruce's lips. "I've had some experience with that." Then, worried that he might give this stranger a poor impression of Dick, he added, "rarely."

"I can believe it. Just looking at the way he acts around you. Most of the other patients I've seen… if they do get visitors, you can tell in a minute they'd be much happier staying away. I haven't had the nerve to ask them why they bother coming, but I'd suspect in a lot of cases, it's insurance. In case the person they're visiting ever gets out of here, they don't want to be cut out of the will."

If he was trying to imply something… "Dick already has full access to my assets. I set that up years ago, in case—"

"I see. Well, it sounds like you made a good choice, then. Grapevine has it he's been fighting for your release practically since the day you arrived. And he didn't run out and buy a Porsche this year, either."

Bruce shrugged. "He has his own resources to tap, if he needed one." Unconsciously, he smiled. "He'd probably be happier with a Chevrolet, if you want the truth."

The man raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't mind finding out how one raises a child with such… moderate tastes, given the sort of lifestyle he must have led.

"I'm Alex, by the way."

"A… volunteer, or something?" He'd never heard of such a thing at Arkham, but maybe those patients who were deemed less violent had one assigned to them?

Alex looked away. "Not exactly."

Realization dawned. Bruce turned his back, angrily. "I should have guessed."

"Maybe, maybe not." Alex sighed. "I was hoping for a meeting with you that wouldn't involve either of us getting on the defensive. I never intended to deceive you."

The light switched off, then.

"I guess we'll see each other under more formal circumstances tomorrow," Alex said. "It'll be a bit later than you're used to though. Four o'clock."

Silence.

"I did enjoy our conversation, by the way."

Silence.

"Good night, then."

Bruce didn't unclench his fists until he heard Alex's footsteps fade away. _Of all the underhanded tricks…!_ He closed his eyes. He was imagining how this new doctor might try to invite conversation—after fourteen doctors, he had some idea—and how he planned to respond, when sleep claimed him.

* * *

At 8:57, Renee Montoya nodded to herself, bent down, and positioned the heavy lever to the "on" position. Immediately, the spotlight with its stylised bat illuminated the Gotham sky. She straightened, knowing that it would take Batman about fifteen minutes to make the drive from Arkham to Central, no more than thirty if he couldn't avoid the crowds leaving the movie theatres after the 7 o'clock shows let out… 

"Scarecrow?"

Renee gasped. "How in the hell did you get here so fast?"

"If I told you how the magic worked, Detective, my powers would vanish. It _is _Scarecrow, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Naturally. He hasn't made a move yet, and he hasn't been spotted since he broke out this morning."

"He will."

She turned off the signal. "And how many people is he going to hurt this time?"

It was a rhetorical question. He answered it anyway. "As few as possible, if I can help it." He turned to go, then spun back to face her.

"Detective? Do you… always wait until just before nine before you turn on the signal?"

Montoya looked away. "Why waste power?" She made eye contact. "Besides, I figured he might need you more than we would."

"Explain." His voice was rougher than he wanted it to be. True, it sounded more like Bruce's, but for the wrong reasons.

Renee sighed. "I tried to see him this morning, when I came off-duty. That was when I found out about Scarecrow. I've… been doused with Crane's concoctions before." She grimaced. "Literally. That time he slipped it into those knockoff perfumes—were you in Gotham at the time?"

The cowled figure shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. The thing is, I'd just spritzed myself, when they announced the danger on the radio. And even though I understood what was going on intellectually, I couldn't shake the conviction that Mr. Zsasz was coming back for me, hot to carve another notch into his torso. At that point, you could have shown me live footage of him chained to the foot of his bed in Arkham, and the only thing keeping me from hiding under my bed was the certainty that he was already there, biding his time."

"Your point, Detective?"

Renee fiddled with a small gold chain around her neck. "You know I got promoted last year," she met the blank eyeholes of his mask squarely. "For the first few weeks, I felt like I had to do everything, know everything. Commissioner Sawyer had to remind me a few times that I wasn't in complete control, and didn't have to be. That was fine, for me, but him? You remember when the gang-war broke out? His first idea to contain it was for Akins to give him authority over the entire GCPD. And when Akins didn't cede control to him, he took it. He doesn't just _want_ to be in charge, he _has_ to be." She looked away. "One thing about Crane's concoctions: they teach you pretty fast that… you aren't. For someone like him, it must have been devastating. Especially now, when he doesn't have a lot of control over his situation in the first place."

Dick processed that. "Thank you."

"For?"

There was no answer. And suddenly, there was no Batman. Montoya shook her head ruefully. _I can't believe Gordon put up with this for so many years. And I'm getting to be the same way.

* * *

_

Cobblepot glanced up from his nearly-finished humming bird. The new bartender was shaping up nicely. He'd remembered to use one-and-a-half times the usual amount of strawberry syrup, and only three-quarters the normal amounts of rum cream and Amaretto, respectively. Those instructions pertained only to his own cocktail, of course. For the paying customers, the alcohol content was increased. "Yes, Talbot?"

The tuxedoed maitre d' bowed respectfully. "There's a gentleman waiting in your office, Mr. Cobblepot. He said he had some information on your Greek lady. That was all he told me."

The Penguin nodded. "Excellent. Did you offer him a drink?"

"Yes, Sir. I've just now come from serving him a Heineken."

He nodded again. Certainly, he had chosen a European import, but still and all, the man had ordered a… _beer_. In one of the finest establishments in the city. The boor! Cobblepot sniffed as he rose to his feet and headed toward the back of the _Iceberg_.

"My assistant tells me you have news for me, Mr…?"

His guest remained seated but extended his hand. After a moment, Cobblepot clasped it.

"Bret Carter. Formerly 'Agent' Bret Carter. I used to be attached to Senator Bob Pullman's staff."

Cobblepot snorted. "Interesting. But is it at all relevant?"

Carter nodded, unsmiling. "If you're looking for information about The Oracle, you'd better believe it."


	4. Chapter 4: Keeping It Together

_When the whistle blows, I'll be there  
Life goes on even when it's not fair  
And who's got time to hurt, right now  
I got to go to work_

_Oh I got to stay busy that's the only way  
Throw myself into my business and collect my pay  
Watch me keep it together while I fall apart_

_--Bill Lloyd, Pam Tillis, "Goin' to Work"

* * *

_

Thanks to Char, Debbie and Kalin for the beta! "Goin' to Work" performed by Martina McBride on her _The Way that I Am_ CD. Copyright 1993 by RCA.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Keeping It Together**

"Before I tell you anything," Carter continued, "I need to know what you're offering."

Cobblepot nodded. "That's only fair. You understand, of course, that I'm looking to procure this information for a client of mine. I'm authorised to go as high as one hundred fifty thousand in untraceable diamonds, if your story is accurate."

The former federal agent snorted. "If that were true, you'd have started by offering sixty. Just because I'm not part of your regular coterie doesn't mean I don't know how people like you do business."

"Of course not," the diminutive businessman agreed. Absently, he adjusted his monocle. "However, if you were hoping for a more attractive offer, you'll need to demonstrate that what you're providing is worth that amount. How is it, Mr. Carter, that you just _happen_ to have the information that we seek?"

Carter leaned back. "Let me give you some background, Penguin," he said, smirking a little as Cobblepot flinched. "Oh, that's right. You've _reformed_."

"I can assure you, Mr. Carter," he replied, "that you may run any checks you wish. You will discover that I cannot be directly linked to any criminal acts committed within the last 5 years."

"I know," Carter snapped. "You hide your tracks too well for that." He raised a hand as the lounge owner opened his mouth to respond. "Spare me. I'm not with the agency anymore, and I could care less about your set-up. Here's what's going to happen."

He whipped a pad out of his breast pocket and scrawled a number on it. "This, Mr. Cobblepot, is the number of a special account in Belize. After our conversation, you are going to get on the phone to your client and tell him what I'm about to tell you. You will ask him how much my information is worth. You will then deposit that sum into the account. If the amount is to my liking, we'll meet again, at which point I will reveal more. By the way, _most_ of what I'm going to tell you can be corroborated. You'll have to trust me on the rest. Do we have a deal?"

Penguin removed his monocle, pulled out a clean cloth and began to wipe it. "This isn't going to be one of those _long_ stories, I trust? My time is valuable, after all."

"So's my information." Carter leaned forward. "Alright. As I told you initially, I was once assigned to Senator Pullman. At one time, the senator had… dealings with a man who called himself 'Savant'…"

* * *

Bruce accepted the English muffin (already cold), the slice of orange American cheese, and the plastic cup of juice stoically. The orderly placed a towel, a clean orange uniform and a fresh change of underwear on the now vacant shelf. Bruce took those too. 

"Thanks," he said softly.

If the other person heard, he didn't respond.

Bruce gave a mental shrug as he unwrapped the cheese, and slapped it between the two halves of the muffin. They'd buttered it, well, margarined it, for him too. How thoughtful. Maybe, now that he'd decided to start interacting with the staff, he could ask for strawberry jam?

_No_, he sighed inwardly. He _knew_ what would happen, then. He could almost hear them in the staff room.

"_Batman asked for jam."_

"_Jam, you say?"_

"_Jam. What do you think?"_

"_Well, it sounds innocuous enough… but then, he IS Batman. You don't think he could use the **acid** in the jam to get through the cell door?"_

"Wait… wait! I heard pectin can help cleanse toxins from the body. What if he knows how to reverse the process?"

"_I don't know how he can use it to escape, but if he's asking for it, there must be **some** way…"_

He shook his head. Better not to bother. He could manage without the jam.

Breakfast over; he headed for the small alcove at the back of the cell that housed the toilet, sink, and shower facilities. The half-wall gave him the illusion of privacy—so long as he ignored the three visible security cameras. He had learned to ignore them, although he never truly forgot about them.

He unscrewed the cap from the depilatory cream, squeezed a generous portion into the palm of his hand, and applied it to the lower half of his face. After one month at Arkham, they had given him three options: keep the beard, use the cream, or be shaved by one of the staff members. He'd almost opted to keep the beard. Would have, except it itched. And some part of him still cared about the image he presented to those around him. Was this vanity? Or some vestige of the lessons that Alfred had inculcated in him? Bruce winced. Alfred. He wasn't only going to have to discuss the loss of his parents, or of Jason. He was going to have to… no. It was too soon. He wasn't prepared to deal with that one yet.

He placed the clean uniform and towel on top of the toilet tank and began to undress. The cell didn't have an actual shower stall, just a tiled area with a drain and a faucet mounted in the wall.

Old uniform shed, Bruce turned on the faucet with one hand, while he took up his washcloth with the other. With his eyes closed, this was about the only time that he could truly forget where he was. He sighed. It wouldn't last long. First step was to get the depilatory off his face. Then, after rinsing the washcloth thoroughly, he pumped out a few squirts of liquid soap from the dispenser on the wall.

A few moments later, he emerged from the alcove, clean, dressed, beardless, and ready to deal with this new doctor. _Alex_. That seemed to be how he wanted to be known. Bruce rolled his eyes as he rehashed last night's meeting. He remembered then: the session wasn't until later this afternoon. Which meant that he now had hours to pass. Bruce sighed. He might as well try to meditate again.

He sat cross-legged on the bed and tried once more to clear his mind. It wasn't working. Whether he half-expected another incident such as that which had happened yesterday, or whether he was actually nervous about the upcoming session, he simply could not get into the right frame of mind.

_Time to try something different_, he thought as he rose to his feet. As though he were facing his _sensei_, he bowed, drew a deep breath, crossed his arms, and uncrossed them as he exhaled. Then he faced right, crossed his arms at shoulder level, uncrossed them, and punched out with his right hand at mid-torso level. He advanced a step and punched with his left. He spun and repeated the exercise. After performing the same basic move in all four directions, he started over. Somewhere around the eighth repetition of the _heian shodan_ kata, his surroundings vanished. His circumstances vanished. He existed in the movement and the moment. He remembered the difference between calmness and numbness, and the distinction between serenity and apathy. And he gave himself over to the serenity of the moment as he calmly repeated the movements. He was relaxed. He was centred. He was at peace. At least, for the duration of the exercise.

* * *

"Huntress will be with you tonight," Dick said. 

Tim nodded, as he used a broken piece of toast to mop up his egg-yolks. "And Cass comes back next week?"

"Still up in the air," Dick admitted. "Babs does, but depending on whether this doctor needs to run more tests, Cass might stay longer."

"Alone in Ivytown?" Tim asked dubiously. "I know she handled herself alright in Bludhaven, but she was living in a part of the city that had a lot of different types of people living there, so she didn't really stand out. And Alfred checked up on her. A lot. Ivytown's pretty white-bread. And socially… As much as she's improved, she's still going to be noticed."

Dick helped himself to another piece of toast. "First," he said, "she's not moving there, just visiting. Second, Ivytown might not get the same mix of people that a place like Gotham or Bludhaven would, but it's a university town. The campus is going to be diverse. And third, they're staying with somebody in _our_ line of work, who knows to keep an eye on her. Babs spoke to him about the situation."

Tim nodded. "The guy taking over for Ray Palmer, you mean?" At Dick's surprised nod, the teenager grinned. "There aren't too many of us based in that part of the country. It's not that big a stretch. So how much did Babs tell him?"

Dick smiled back. "The Atom received notification that a couple of people of Oracle's acquaintance have reason to be in his area, and need accommodations, no questions asked. She's taking advantage of Cass' situation to get a feel first-hand for how this guy works."

He took a bite of his toast, chewed and swallowed. "To change the subject, you have no problems working with Huntress?"

"Me?" Tim asked. "Nah, we've teamed up together before, remember? Don't worry. Scarecrow's going down tonight."

Dick's hand froze on the milk carton. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just… Huntress and I will handle it."

"Tim…"

The younger man sighed. "Look, I'm not saying it's intentional but ever since Hush…" His voice trailed off.

"Yes?"

"Dick. When was the last time that Batman sent an inmate back to Arkham when he didn't have Robin or Batgirl backing him up?" In an undertone, he added, "And they're the ones who take down the escapee. Every single time."

"You think I…"

Tim shifted position uncomfortably. "Don't jump all over me for saying this: if the perp is fresh out of Blackgate, you've usually got him tied up on the roof of GCPD Headquarters within 24 to 48 hours. On the other hand, you couldn't find Killer Croc for almost a week. _Killer Croc_. He's not exactly Mr. Miracle when it comes to escape artistry."

"That's not…" The protest died on Dick's lips. Was Tim right? _Had_ he been unconsciously holding back when it was an Arkham escapee on the loose? He'd said he'd do anything to protect Bruce but he couldn't have been… Dick mentally reviewed the last month. And the month before that. Without a photographic memory, he'd need his reports to go back further, but it looked as though the younger vigilante did have a point. "Why didn't you say something about this before?"

Tim sighed. "I didn't want to leave myself open for anything."

"Come again?"

Tim's voice was barely a whisper. "It would have sounded like I was attacking you for… for watching out for Bruce. I mean, I haven't been to visit him in months. I can't stand to see… I look at him and I think 'at this time last year he was…' only now…" Tim bit his lip. "It's been over a year since he was arrested, right?"

Dick did some quick calculations. Bruce had been in Arkham a little under a year, but Alfred's death, and the arrest had come about six weeks earlier. Dick had been to the cemetery not that long ago. Somehow, he hadn't linked the two events--Bruce's arrest and Alfred's death--to the same date. _The funeral came a few days later. That's probably why you think of them separately._ He nodded.

Tim scarcely noticed. "I don't know if he hears me when I talk to him, and I haven't got a clue what to say anymore."

"I usually just fill him in on what we're up to," Dick said. "And he's starting to come out of it now. You should stop by. You're done with finals, now. You've got the time." He hadn't known that Tim had stopped visiting. He should have suspected, though. Since last October, when Chemo had… "There's still no word about Dana, right?"

Tim shook his head. "At this time last year, she was getting better. She was going to be upgraded to 'outpatient status'. They… they gave her town privileges," he said.

Dick nodded. He knew the story. Tim had gone over it countless times during the weeks immediately following the Bludhaven disaster. Dana had left the rest home to go shopping in downtown Bludhaven. And catastrophe had struck. Deathstroke and the Society released Chemo on Bludhaven. And, just like that, a city became a ruin. The death toll was over one hundred thousand. Dana Drake was one of the over thirty-five thousand whose whereabouts were yet unconfirmed. The day Chemo landed, Dick had returned early to find Tim attacking the punching bag he'd recently installed in Gordon's basement.

"_Go away, Dick. I'm fine."_

"_No. You're not. Don't give me that garbage."_

"_Okay. I **will** be fine. How's that?"_

"_Tim…"_

"_Don't. Don't tell me everything's going to be alright. It hasn't happened so far. And don't tell me you're here for me. I know that. What I need to know is for how long?"_

_Unconsciously, Dick took a step toward the angry teen. "What do you mean?"_

Tim whirled to face him. "Everyone leaves eventually, haven't you figured it out yet? Mom, Dad… Steph… Leslie…" His voice broke. "Alfred. Bruce." His eyes filled with tears. "Okay, every so often, it's not 'forever'. After the mob war," his voice lowered, "I thought I'd lost… never mind. The crunch came and you came back. But then it can make you wonder… whether everything can go back to how it was, or if it's all just… changed too much."

_Dick flinched. He opened his mouth, but Tim cut him off._

"_And if things do go back to normal, you got to ask yourself: how long, this time?"_

_Dick waited until he was sure Tim was done. How long had the boy had these doubts? "If you're thinking about what happened after I walked out on Bruce," Dick said quietly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you when we met up in," his voice caught, "in Bludhaven. No excuses. I was angry at my life and I took it out on you."_

"_You really think I care about that now?" Tim demanded, as he spun back and delivered a series of hard jabs at the punching bag._

"_Maybe. And I know you did then."_

"_Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe it's better not to care. Maybe then… I wouldn't… it wouldn't hurt so bad." He didn't shake off the hand that Dick placed gently on his shoulder. "How did Bruce do it? Close himself off like that?"_

"_Is that really what you want?"_

"_No!" He shouted. He continued in a softer tone, "I don't think so. Not really. But… I know why **he** wanted it."_

_Dick sighed. "It doesn't work, Tim. It didn't for me. It didn't for Bruce. It won't for you either. Tim… look at me."_

_Slowly, the boy complied. Dick placed both hands firmly on Tim's shoulders. "This shouldn't have happened. Not to Dana, not to anybody else in the 'Haven, and definitely not to people like you and me who lived in that place long enough to have," he used the present tense unthinkingly, without hesitation, "people we care about there. But it did happen, and there's nothing that we can do to change it. Now, listen. I'm about to drive out to the hangar, as soon as I grab some emergency supplies. We'll never make it on the road, but one of the 'copters might--"_

_Tim blinked at him. "We?"_

"_If you think you're up to it, anyway. Babs is calling in some reserves to keep an eye on Gotham, tonight."_

_Tim hesitated. He looked at his hands, and then shifted his gaze to the punching bag. He closed his eyes. "I… if I go out there tonight," he whispered, "I might forget about… I might… if I found Deathstroke, or… or anyone else from the Society now, I don't know if I could bring them in. And I do know that I'd do everything I could to make sure they wouldn't be able to do something like this again." He met Dick's eyes, half-daring the older vigilante to try to talk him out of it. When Dick didn't, Tim looked away. "And if I'm thinking that way…" He broke free of Dick's hands, "I need to stay here tonight."_

_He was about to resume his attack on the punching bag when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. _

"_I told you a long time ago that it's better to be mature enough to realize your limits. That's one thing you've got over me. Take all the time you need." He added lightly, "I'm not going Robin shopping for awhile, yet."_

_Tim gave him a watery smile and delivered a vicious left hook to the bag._

Dick had thought that Tim had worked through things. But… "It's not easy," Dick admitted. "Sometimes I do think that if I missed a day, he wouldn't notice."

"But, you still…"

"He's been there for me too many times to count. And I do know that if it were me in Arkham for the last year, he wouldn't give up." He half-smiled. "He used to go play chess with Two-Face, did you know that?" He didn't wait for Tim's reply. "If he'd pay social calls on someone who tries to kill him half the time…" There was no need for Dick to complete the sentence.

"Two nights ago, he finally started coming out of it. He didn't say much, but," now how had that lump gotten into his throat? Dick drew a deep breath. "He asked me if I was coming back."

Tim looked away. "I… I'll try to see him before I start at SFSU in the fall."

"You decided on that one, then." Dick's tone was carefully neutral. He'd known that the application deadline had passed, known that Tim had been accepted at several excellent colleges in both the Gotham and San Francisco areas. Somehow, though, he had never asked Tim which school's offer he meant to accept.

Tim nodded. "I sent the forms off weeks ago. I just wasn't sure how to bring up the subject." He exhaled. "I didn't want it to look like I'm abandoning Gotham. I mean, you need me, I'm on the next flight back. Or Raven can teleport me."

"And if Bruce needs you?"

Tim braced himself against the counter top. "I can't stand seeing him like that, Dick. I'm sorry. I can't. I couldn't deal with it when Bane broke his back. I don't know if I can handle it now. Maybe it'll be easier if I write to him. He never answers letters anyway… it'll be kinda like normal."

"Tim."

Tim spun back to face him. "Do you want me to lie, Dick? Do you want me to say I'll fly in every weekend and sit there and try not to cry while he tries to pretend I'm not hurting him more by being there?" He blinked rapidly. "I can't—I don't want to see him like that. I'm sorry. I wish I could be like you and hold it all in until I was outside, but I don't think I am." He turned away. "I'll… write to him. Honest."

Moments ticked by in silence. Finally, Dick said, "Try to see him once before you go. Even if you think it's useless. And Tim?" He paused. "Sometimes it's not enough to know your limits. Sometimes you have to push them."

Tim paused in the kitchen doorway. "Sometimes," he said, without turning, "they push back. And it hurts. I… I can't hurt anymore. I've got to get out of here." He walked away quickly.

Dick frowned. Tim didn't sound like he was just talking about leaving for his summer job.

* * *

The bell rang, signifying the end of the day. As one, the fifth-grade class surged upwards, expectantly. Helena Bertinelli raised an eyebrow. Stifling groans, the children sat back down. The bell didn't release them—the teacher did. 

Helena waited a moment for them to remember that detail, before she smiled serenely. "Class is dismissed."

Spell broken, the boys and girls leaped up and fled, chattering and laughing, toward the corridor beyond.

Inwardly, Helena chuckled. She remembered her own schooldays well enough to know that a class's eagerness to leave at the end of the day was no reflection on their opinion of the teacher.

A loud crash jolted her out of her thoughts.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry, Ms. Bertinelli."

She looked down at the mortified child who was attempting to gather the books and papers that he had knocked off of her desk. She should have known better than to place that stack so close to the edge.

"It's alright, Cody," she said gently as she bent down to help him. "No harm done. See? The papers are almost all in order. It's fine."

"I didn't mean to," Cody said desperately.

"I know that. It's okay. Go on home, now."

He got up. "Yes, Ms. Bertinelli."

Helena watched him trudge off. "Cody?" She called.

He turned.

She smiled. "I can see you've been working harder on your spelling. Your last composition shows a lot of improvement. Keep it up."

Cody's smile lit up his entire face. "Yes, Ms. Bertinelli, thank-you, Ms. Bertinelli!" He dashed off.

Helena nodded to herself and finished picking up the papers. She'd have to start grading them as soon as she got home if Huntress was to team up with Robin tonight.

* * *

Bruce didn't speak during the short trip from his cell to one of the upper floors of the asylum. He was mentally arming himself for battle. 

_Be polite. Be pleasant. Pretend I'm at one of Gotham Gertie's endless soirees. All I have to do is interact and not allow myself to become entangled in any commitments that I can't pull out of gracefully._

It had been a long time. In the aftermath of the mob war, he had more or less withdrawn from the Gotham social scene. He'd let people think that he was still reeling from the loss of Kord Technologies, and from the impact on WE's stock standing. He'd started turning down invitations, even to charity balls. Oh, he'd still sent generous donations, but he'd found that he no longer had the patience or energy to waste talking to people who were as empty-headed as he'd pretended to be. And now, for nearly a year, these therapy sessions were the extent of his social calendar. Bruce grimaced. He was out of practice.

_Can the excuses. You've been playing **this** part for fifteen years_. And it had gotten old. So tiresome, in fact, that some part of him had been relieved when the mask had come off. Nobody would ever believe that Bruce Wayne was a shallow, vapid… idiot now. The congressmen who had laughed at him when he'd tried to save Gotham from being declared a No Man's Land… did they laugh now?

"Here we are, Bruce," the orderly announced, knocking smartly on the wooden door.

_So soon?_

The door opened, and Alex smiled gravely, as he extended his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Bruce took it. "Good to see you again, Mr. Wayne."

"You want him in the chair, or on the couch?" The orderly asked.

Alex released his hand and glanced up with ill-concealed annoyance. "That's really up to the patient. You can come back in an hour."

"Um… actually, we have to wait for him."

The doctor sighed. "You can do that outside the room. Just close the door behind you." He turned to Bruce. "You can make yourself comfortable." He sat down at his desk. "I'm finishing up with something."

Bruce blinked. The orderly pushed the chair farther into the office. Then he and the other three attendants left, closing the door quietly behind them.

Bruce looked around. There was no 'treatment couch'. Instead, in addition to the desk and swivel chair, the office contained a contemporary sofa upholstered in teal, with two matching armchairs, grouped around a double pedestal coffee table. On each side of the sofa, there was a well-appointed bookcase. Like the coffee table and desk, the wood had a cherry finish.

"You can take a book, if you'd like."

Bruce ignored the offer. He was too busy steeling himself for the ordeal ahead.

Alex didn't even glance up, so intent was he on his writing.

After a few moments of this, Bruce began to wonder. Was Alex deliberately trying to wear him down? He glanced at the desk. Something caught his eye and he leaned forward in angry disbelief. Alex was calmly filling out a crossword puzzle.

"What are you doing?"

Alex raised his eyes. "Trying to find a ten-letter synonym for 'prediction'. The fourth letter's a 'G'. Got any ideas?"

"What?"

"If you're bored, there's plenty of reading material on the shelves. Pick something."

He didn't sound sarcastic or insulting. If anything, his tone was downright friendly. Bruce frowned. Obviously, Alex was playing some sort of game, but what? Bruce slowly stood up and walked to the window. Hesitantly, he pushed aside the ersatz silk curtain. The window was barred, of course, but he could see the exercise yard, and the walls, and a bit of the fields beyond them. He could see the sky. He could see it all. He just couldn't go outside. Abruptly Bruce let the curtain fall back into place.

With a mental sigh, he sat down on the sofa, facing the desk, and waited for Alex to say something. He watched, as the doctor frowned and flipped the pages to the answers at the back of the book, then wrote some more. When he turned to a new puzzle, Bruce felt more than a little irritated. Finally, Alex looked up.

"Okay, time's almost up. I'll see you tomorrow."

Bruce gaped at him. "That's it?"

"Well, there are another three minutes to go, but yes, basically."

"You just sat here doing crossword puzzles for almost an hour and…"

Alex nodded. "Do you want to be here?" He asked.

"What?"

"If I wrote out your discharge papers today, would you want to go home?"

Bruce was silent.

"That's what I thought," Alex said. "Simply put: if you want to stay in Arkham, then there's no point in wasting my time or yours trying to get you well enough to leave. So, consider these sessions a chance for you to spend an hour in a different environment, and again, feel free to avail yourself of the reading material. Oh! You wouldn't by any chance know a nine-letter name of a songbird? Starts with 's' and the sixth and seventh letters are 'ch'?"

There was a light tap on the door. Alex smiled. "We're done," he called. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Wayne."

As they wheeled him back toward his cell, Bruce realized that Alex was actually doing him a favor. There need be no concern now that the visits would stop, or that he would be forced to discuss painful topics with a complete stranger. He was safe. He could relax. This was probably the best arrangement that he could have asked for. Then… why did he feel… cheated?

* * *

Montoya switched off the signal, as the two masked figures dropped lightly to the Gotham rooftop. "Lab boys already checked this out," she said, as she held a heavy piece of paper out to them. Robin took it. "Evidence needs it back, though." 

"He's made his demands," she added as the teen examined the paper. "Gotham pays him a ransom of ten million dollars, or he'll take that… recipe he tested when he broke out of Arkham and set it loose all over the city."

Robin skimmed the note. "He's giving us seventy-four hours to come up with the money."

Huntress frowned. "Why seventy-four? Is there something significant about that?"

At Montoya's blank look, Robin nodded. "In China," He said, "it's considered an unlucky number."

"Seventy-four?"

The youth nodded. "In Cantonese, the word for 'four' is the same as the word for 'death'. 'Seventy-four' sounds like 'surely dead'.

Montoya shivered. "Lovely. Crane didn't leave any prints on it, by the way."

"And the analysis of the fear gas, Captain?"

"Still in the works." She said. Her promotion to second shift commander had come with an increase in rank. She'd finally gotten used to it. "One other thing: that paper you're holding? It's not something you can pick up at your local copy shop. Analyst says it's Acquerello. Hot-pressed finish. And Scarecrow wrote that note in orange ink. With a fountain pen."

Huntress' eyes narrowed. "I didn't know they made ink for fountain pens in that colour."

"It's rarer than the paper," the police officer agreed. "We made a few calls to art suppliers. It almost always has to be special-ordered."

"And Acquerello… that usually has to be special-ordered, too," Robin frowned. It was generally used for watercolour paintings, and it couldn't be picked up in a local stationary store. He shook his head. "Scarecrow's been loose less than forty-eight hours. He hasn't had time to place orders." He turned to Montoya. "Did you try all of the art shops?"

"Not yet. Just the major ones." She rattled off a list of names. "So far, nothing."

"Okay," Robin said. "That helps. At least we have some idea where to start looking."

Montoya started to say something.

"And yes," the youth continued. "Of course using materials that uncommon means Crane's deliberately making it easier to trace him. So, naturally, it's got to be a trap."

"Just so you're aware," Montoya said. "If you need reinforcements…"

"We won't," Huntress said. "But thanks." She smiled thinly. Seeing the watch commander's eyes flick briefly toward her crossbow, Huntress sighed. "I won't use lethal force," she said defensively.

"If I didn't believe you," the police captain replied, "we wouldn't be having this conversation." She smiled wryly. "You did good work in the NML," she said. "Too bad we weren't on the same side most of the time."

This time, the purple-clad vigilante's smile was genuine.

* * *

Dick shifted the receiver to his left ear. "I know, Babs. That was my first instinct, too. But if I hit him too hard, Helena'd be stuck tackling Crane alone tonight… any word on when Dinah and the others get back?" 

He sighed. The rest of the Birds were undercover and maintaining radio silence. It might be days before they checked in. "So how's this all-new Atom?" He laughed at her reply. "We were all young, once… _hey!_" He sputtered. "That was completely uncalled for, Babs!" He said, trying to sound outraged. "I guess that's what a _kid_ like me gets, dating an _older_ woman…" He jerked the telephone away from his ear barely in time to avoid her shriek of protest.

He paused a beat. "Someone can dish it out…" he teased.

"Don't give me that," Barbara snapped. "Buster you are sooooo lucky I'm two states away from you right now—"

"And that you love me?"

"That too, and don't change the subject. And don't laugh!" She ordered. He had a damned infectious laugh. She managed to hold out for a half-moment before succumbing.

"About Tim," she said, sobering.

"I know I can't push it. It's just…"

"He doesn't have the same relationship with Bruce that you do. With him it was always a… a working partnership. He _liked_ the work, but he always felt he had the option of walking away—"

"I could've done that," Dick started to say.

"If Batman hadn't fired you, would you have?"

Dick hesitated. "If my parents were alive and didn't want me in the suit… maybe. Maybe…"

"How about if he outed your secret identity to me because you missed one check-in? In the early days when you both thought 'Batgirl' was some sort of hanger-on."

"Hey, I _never _thought you were a hanger-on," he said. "But I see your point. Still… to just walk away like that…"

Barbara sighed. "Now that I think about it, I understand. More than I want to. After I got shot, I pushed everyone away. Some people… didn't come back. Some of them were people I could have sworn I could count on, no matter what. But in the final analysis, if I tell people over and over again that I don't want to see them, if I don't return their phone calls, and barely talk to them if they confront me… Even if I promise myself that the next time they call, I'll pick up, can I blame them if they took the hint after I let it go to voice mail for the twenty-fifth time?"

"You're saying, you think Tim's right?"

"I don't think 'right' or 'wrong' even enters into it this time. Bruce needs support, yes. Tim's had a lot of things hit him in a very short period of time. If he really _can't_ be there for him, right now, then… whether he _should_ be is a moot point. It might be worse for both of them if Tim just goes because we 'guilted' him into it." She lowered her voice. "If you'd been that way when you were around me… and I know that's what I accused you of, but Dick, if you'd really been that way, I swear I would've thrown something at you. Like my printer."

On the other end of the phone, Dick winced and rubbed his head. "I hear what you're saying, Babs."

"But you still want to throttle him."

"Yes."

"He'll expect that, knowing how devoted you are to Bruce. Probably lie low for a while. If you can wait 'til Cass and I get back, though. I'll lure him in for you."

Dick laughed. "I got to go. Stack of copy to proof."

"Is it really a night off, if you're working on your other job?"

"Yes," Dick said fervently. "By the way, I gave Bruce your regards."

"And?"

Dick was silent.

Barbara sighed. "I'll be back end of the week. Probably with Cass." Then, almost shyly, "I love you."

"Love you too, Babs."

* * *

"His story checks out," Calculator said. 

Penguin sighed.

"You're displeased."

"Did you _calculate_ that from the amount of air I expended in that last breath?" Cobblepot demanded. "The man has an attitude. I dislike rewarding insolence."

Calculator tugged on a green, yellow and red plaid tie, that clashed with his royal-blue and aquamarine pinstriped suit. "As do I. Where can I plug this in?" He held up a black attache case.

"Plug in… ah! You have a computer in there, don't you?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "No, it's my lunch," he said sarcastically. "I like a _real_ jolt of caffeine. Of course it's a computer!"

"Don't be tetchy, my good Sir. The outlet," he gestured negligently, "is there."

"Perfect. Now, Penguin," he smirked, "I'm going to show you something about the beauty of electronics." So saying, he plugged in the laptop and turned on the power. "Where's the account he gave you?"

Cobblepot handed him the paper.

Kuttler nodded to himself. "Observe," he said, typing instructions as he spoke. "To Carter, this," he inclined his head toward the paper, "is an account number. To you… it's an account number. To _me_, on the other hand… it's a gateway."

"Oh?" Penguin asked, feigning disinterest.

"Yes. You see this," he pointed to the screen, "is his account in Belize. Now, with the right codes," he tapped a few keys, bringing up a new screen… "Idiot. His banking information lists an account with Alaska First Community Bank and Trust as a recipient for wire transfers. And now… yes…" he smiled as a new screen came up. "This… is our Mr. Bret Carter. His finances, holdings, family members, social security number, grade transcripts… they're all here."

Cobblepot's eyes widened. "And you wonder why I avoid these devices."

"Would you shun all electrical power because you feared a surge?" Kuttler mocked. "Alright then. Carter wants to know how much it's worth to us to know that he probably _does_ know who the Oracle is. The answer to that," he typed instructions, "is forty-five thousand. There. That's in the Belize account, or will be within the next several minutes. _However_," he added smugly, "he should be fined for his attitude, wouldn't you say, Penguin? Say… everything in his US accounts?"

"All?" Cobblepot asked, steepling his hands together.

Kuttler thought for a moment. "I'll leave his kid's RESP. Why make a fourteen-year-old boy," he raised an eyebrow, "who's never going to win any scholarships if he doesn't bring those English and science grades up, suffer just because the father's a greedy fool?" He sighed. "But if he tries to cash it out, I'm foreclosing his mortgage and selling the house out from under him."

Penguin frowned. "And what am I to do when he comes back here, furious?"

"Whatever do you pay your bouncers for? After he makes contact again, call me. I know how to reach him now."

* * *

Huntress sighed. The night was ageing, and she and Robin had only managed to scout four of the eighteen art supply stores on their list. They would have covered more ground had they split up, but that could hardly be considered a wise move. 

"Alarm's off," Robin whispered. "You take the back door, I'll take the skylight."

"Check." She smiled as she moved into position. She liked the kid. Unlike his mentor, he'd accepted her almost immediately. And, once he had, she'd never felt the need to prove herself again. _Speaking of his mentor_… she frowned. Robin didn't really. Speak of him, that is. The nights when she worked with the current Batman, Bruce Wayne came up frequently in conversation. With the kid, even when she asked, she rarely got a response beyond "the same" or "as well as can be expected, I guess". She was curious, sure, but it really wasn't any of her business. She inserted a lock pick into the heavy iron door, and was rewarded by a click a moment later. She pulled it open, wincing as it creaked.

It was nearly pitch-black inside, but working for Oracle had several advantages. For one thing, she now had night-vision goggles—something she'd gone without when she'd first taken up the Huntress identity. No need for fumbling for a light-switch, or waving a flashlight around these days. She seemed to be standing in a stockroom. Around her, various art supplies stood on neatly marked metal shelves that extended from floor to ceiling. Arts and crafts smells of DAS modelling clay, tempera paint powders, and felt-tip markers mingled with unfamiliar chemical smells, which she imagined belonged to the sort of professional paints and other supplies that never saw the inside of an elementary school.

She froze. She thought she'd heard… "Robin? Is that you?"

She could make out voices ahead. Too light to be Robin's. Young women, perhaps. Or children. The voices were too far away for her to hear individual words, but she thought she could identify laughter. Slowly, she moved in its general direction. As a precaution, she fitted a bolt to her crossbow, making sure that the safety was on.

The stockroom was a maze of shelves. She followed the voices blindly, frustrated that she had yet to catch a glimpse of the speakers.

Some instinct, or perhaps it was a faint sound from overhead, made her look up. To her horror, a stack of boxes from an upper shelf seemed to fly from their place. They were about to land directly upon her!

Huntress sprang into action, running to get clear, but now boxes on the shelves ahead of her were tumbling freely. It wasn't just the supplies above her anymore, she realized as she rounded a corner. Now, the bins on the lower shelves seemed to leap forward, knocking her legs out from under her. She went sprawling, and heard a startled scream, horribly cut short, as a rain of cartons buried her. Then silence.

Moments passed, before the pile of boxes shifted and a purple-gloved hand stretched out. Another few minutes and the Huntress emerged, bruised and sore, but otherwise unhurt. She checked herself over carefully, to be sure. It seemed as though she'd been luckier than she deserved. The boxes that had hit her must have held lighter items. She looked at her weapon, still clutched tightly in one hand. She froze. The string was slack, the bolt gone.

_But the safety was on! _She told herself frantically. Her breath caught. …_Just when the boxes hit me… that scream…_

Horror mounting she pushed forward, nudging aside the battered cartons. At the end of the aisle, she drew back, staring at the small figure that lay crumpled and unmoving before her. She bent down, to check for a pulse. There was none. Choking back a sob, she turned the body over and gasped.

No… no…no… this was…_ I didn't just… I couldn't have… But… that's **my** bolt in **his** chest… _"C-Cody?"


	5. Chapter 5: Picking Up the Pieces

_First you gotta fall apart to pick up all the pieces,  
If you don't learn to let it go,  
the pain inside increases,  
It takes more strength to hold it in then to give in and surrender_

_Amanda Wilkinson, "It's Okay to Cry"_

**Picking Up the Pieces**

As Robin crept silently down the corridor on the upper level of the art supply store, he mentally reviewed his files on Jonathan Crane.

_I know I beat him once, when I was barely thirteen, but I was lucky. I can't count on that. Scarecrow's smart… but then so am I. He's educated--a psychiatrist, a professor, and a scientist. Under Batman, I've studied psychology. And, while I might not know enough chemistry to be able to counter his fear-toxin in five minutes, between the information Batman fed into the computers in the satellite caves, the fact that I've got a friend who once speed-read the entire inventory of the San Francisco Public Library--in about forty-five minutes--and still remembers it all, the contacts another friend has with S.T.A.R. Labs, **and** Oracle's help, it shouldn't be **that** hard to come up with an antidote. Relatively speaking, anyway…_

With an efficiency born of repeated drilling, the teen fished a breathing mask and nose filters from his utility belt and donned them, almost as a reflex. If Crane was going to be using his fear gas, Robin was prepared.

"Noooooooo!"

He froze. The scream had come from the level below him. His skin was prickling. Was that Huntress? It was impossible to be certain. Screaming voices sounded all too similar. What did it matter, anyway? Whoever was downstairs, she (he was nearly sure that it was a woman, at least) was in trouble. He had to help. Robin looked around quickly, and saw a red sign with the word 'Exit' illuminated in glowing white letters. Approaching it, he saw that it hung directly over a stairwell. He drew a deep breath, and tried to ignore the fact that his face was itching as he placed one foot on the first step.

* * *

In the dim light, he saw a woman kneeling over a prone body, weeping.

Hesitantly, he approached her. "Ma'am?"

The woman turned to face him, shoulder-length brown hair swinging as she did. "I-I did this," she whispered. "It was an accident. I didn't mean…" Her expression hardened. "Of course," she continued in a totally different tone of voice, "we always hurt the ones we care for the most. Isn't that so, Tim?"

Robin froze. Dana? Here? How was such a thing possible? His mind reeled. Why was she calling him 'Tim'? Had his father told…?

"You were always so eager to learn, weren't you, Tim?" The hateful words continued to spill from her lips. "Everything Batman ever taught you. How to lie, how to keep secrets, how to lead a double life… How to betray."

Tim followed her downcast gaze and realised that Dana was cradling the still figure of a man he recognised instantly.

"D-dad?"

"And now, you're living in the past. Just like he does."

Tim shook his head. "Captain Boomerang killed my Dad. I had nothing to do with that."

"If you didn't wear that costume, your father would never have become a target. If Martha Wayne hadn't worn her pearls that night, she would never have come to the attention of some random mugger. Neither one of you _planned_ the outcome, true. But you're both accountable."

Tim's mind was spinning. How did Dana know these things?

"Following in his footsteps, aren't you? You can't let yourself get close to anybody who isn't part of your double life. Even with them, you keep a part of yourself locked away. And when they're in trouble, you'd rather honour what they stand for than do something concrete to ease their suffering."

"Look," Tim said, "I don't need to hear this." There was more supplication than defiance in his voice. Although he knew it was childish, he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers against his ears. It didn't help. If anything, Dana's words grew louder.

"Tell me, Tim. Do you honestly think that fighting crime in that suit in any way atones for your being too much of a coward to visit him? Of course, you've got the perfect excuse if anybody calls you on it: you have to get a few more lowlifes off the streets. That's more important than taking time out of your schedule to be there for someone who needs you, isn't it? Oh, but then," the voice continued mockingly, "I forget. You didn't learn that from your mentor, did you?"

In his mind's eye, he saw Dana drop his father's body roughly to the ground. "You learned it from your father." She laughed then, mirthlessly. "You're perfect, aren't you Tim. Perfect son, perfect pupil… you learn your lessons _so_ wonderfully well, don't you?"

With an inarticulate cry, Tim launched himself at Dana, everything forgotten but his need to silence that smug, self-satisfied voice that knew far too many truths for the youth not to fear it.

It gave him no small satisfaction when he saw her raise her arms, and sit there, seemingly frozen.

* * *

"Freeze! GCPD!"

Huntress lowered the body immediately and raised her hands. _Was this what it was like for Batman? Knowing that it was the end of the line and not really caring?_ She looked down, and discovered that she was wearing not her purple costume, but prison greys. And the person charging her… it wasn't a Gotham police officer. It was Santo Cassamento, her biological father. The man who had given the order to murder her brother, her father—or at least the person she had grown up believing to be her father—and Helena herself. Due to a mix-up in the instructions, eight-year-old Helena had been spared, and her mother killed in her place. Now, Cassamento seemed bent on finishing the job.

Something was wrong, though. Cassamento was dead. She'd arranged that. _You never checked if there was a body, though. What makes you so certain that Tomasso didn't double cross you? He was my uncle. But he was also part of Omerta. And if Santo told him about my double life…_

Well, if she was already _in_ prison—and just how had that happened, anyway? She frowned, trying to focus her thoughts, but her concentration slipped away. No matter. If her life was being threatened…then she was damned well going to defend herself!

She leaped to her feet and charged the elderly don she had once thought of as an uncle, but never as a father.

Something hit the ground with a metallic clank. She heard it roll nearby. Automatically she spun in the direction of the sound. A plume of vapour rose from a small mottled sphere, quickly billowing and spreading upwards. It coated her exposed skin, seeped into her costume, burning her. Before her lenses, she could see nothing but a white blur.

She pulled her mask forward to wipe the eyepieces, realising an instant too late how stupid a move that was, as her eyes began to sting and fill with tears.

That was when Huntress felt a hand seize hold of a large hank of her hair and yank her head back. Whoever her assailant was, she had extremely sharp fingernails, which dug painfully into her scalp. At least, Huntress surmised, between the sharpened nails, and the fact that women were more likely than men to go for the hair when attacking, her opponent was probably female. She let loose a yell of mingled pain and rage, and tried to elbow her attacker only to connect with empty air.

A feminine voice suddenly said, "Sorry about this, but you'll thank me later." Then Huntress' captor shoved her head forward. Later, Helena would swear that she not only felt, but heard, a loud crack. She fell, stunned, to the floor.

Catwoman surveyed the fallen vigilantes. Absently, she bent and picked up a large, featureless rag doll that the other woman had been holding. Selina Kyle wondered how she was supposed to get the two heroes out of Scarecrow's booby trap. The woman probably weighed as much as she herself did. With a sigh, Catwoman removed a small canister of knockout spray. She hated to use it. It was a gift from someone she hadn't seen in over a year. But if either of those two came around before she could get them away from the effects of Scarecrow's chemistry experiments… She squirted a short spray into each of their faces. Then, she bent and hoisted Huntress onto her shoulders. She staggered under the other vigilante's weight, but hours of strength training were paying off. She had to get the two of them away from Crane's chemicals and into the fresh air. Catwoman groaned as she saw the stairway to the upper level. _Don't think about how many steps. One foot in front of the other and just keep going until you're back on the roof. _

At the top of the stairs she paused. A slow smile spread her lips. She lurched over to one of the large windows. It was barred, true, but it was also screened. Working up here had to get stuffy in the heat of the day. Catwoman examined the frame carefully. An alarm would sound if someone attempted to remove the bars, but not if she cranked open the window and let some air in.

She set Huntress down against a stack of cartons, directly facing one of the windows. Once she got it open, Catwoman moved carefully back down the stairs to retrieve Robin.

* * *

Robin awoke with a gasp, as he inhaled a sharp, pungent odour. "Get that away from me," he muttered, as he twisted aside. His eyes narrowed. "Catwoman? What are you doing here?"

Selina chuckled. "I needed a pair of tigers."

"Pardon?"

The chill in his voice seemingly had no effect on the woman before him. She laughed again. "They're paint brushes, Little Birdie."

Tim glowered.

She raised her hands, in mock surrender. "Fine. I saw the two of you go in, and I didn't see you come out. This place might be just outside the East End boundary, but I figured I'd push my limits a little, see if you needed help."

_Pushing the limits._ His earlier talk with Dick came flooding back. He winced. Of course she noticed.

"You okay?" She asked as she pushed the handkerchief forward.

"Aaagh!" He protested. "What is that stuff? Catnip?"

She sniffed. "Of course not. Catnip's useless for smelling salts. It's eucalyptus."

A groan from Huntress drew their attention.

"Wha--? No! Codeeee…"

Selina was on her feet instantly. "Huntress?"

"Cody!" She cried again. "I killed him. Shot him… no… he's a kid he…"

Robin frowned. "Huntress? What are you talking about?"

"I think _I_ know," Catwoman said. "Wait there. The pair of you."

Robin tried to leap after her, but a wave of dizziness held him back. "Catwoman!" He shouted to make himself heard over Huntress' low sobs. "Wait! Scarecrow's fear toxins—"

"Can't penetrate the suit," she called back. "I'll be fine!"

Robin watched her go, realising for the first time that a breathing mask covered the lower portion of her face, while a close-fitting mask and hood covered the rest of it. He remembered the prickling sensation he'd felt right before he'd begun hallucinating. If Scarecrow's fear toxins were absorbed through the skin, rather than inhaled, that explained both why he and Huntress had succumbed, and why Catwoman hadn't.

When Catwoman returned moments later, she was carrying something vaguely humanoid. As she set it down, Robin realised that it was a large featureless rag doll, perhaps five feet in length. He supposed that the idea was to sew—or draw—hair and facial features onto the thing. Embedded in the torso was a four-inch dart.

"Huntress?" Selina asked. "Is this what you meant?"

The shaking vigilante blinked. "Cody? I… oh my G-I'm going to have to—how am I going to tell his parents I—"

"HUNTRESS!"

Helena froze.

"Look at _it_!" She used the pronoun deliberately. "This isn't Cody. This is a _doll_. It has a _dart_—not a crossbow bolt in its chest."

"But—"

"Who did you come here to find?" She hurled the doll to the floor before Huntress' feet. "Answer me!"

Huntress drew a shaky breath. "Scarecrow. We came looking for Scarecrow. We were expecting a trap…"

"Good thought. Next time, think about how to avoid it."

Tim's eyes widened. They'd both been hallucinating. If Huntress had been cradling that doll when he'd run downstairs, then when he'd thought he was seeing Dana… "Huntress? Did someone attack you while you were holding…"

"The man who ordered the hit on my family," she admitted.

Tim shook his head and pointed to himself. "Gas got to me too. I thought you were someone else."

Huntress processed that. "We could have killed each other."

He nodded.

She looked down at her hands. They were no longer trembling. "When we find Scarecrow," she said levelly, "don't try to stop me. Don't hold me back. I really don't want you to get hurt."

A black-gloved hand placed itself firmly on her shoulder in a manner that was both reassuring and cautionary. "Uh-uh, Sister," Catwoman said. "Not that way."

"Stay out of this, Catwoman. It doesn't concern you."

The other woman's response was crude and to the point. "You do it that way, it's over too quick," she added. "At heart, Crane's a bully. What do you think it'll do to him, knowing he got taken down by—no offence—a skirt and a kid?"

Huntress' eyes narrowed. "Why do you care whether Crane lives or dies?"

"I don't."

"Then…"

Selina sighed. "I hate seeing smart people make stupid mistakes that ruin their lives. Cross that line, and they _won't_ let you slide."

She sniffed. "You really think the cops are going to bother hunting down the person who does them a favour and stops Scarecrow permanently?"

"It's not the police you're going to have to worry about."

Huntress was silent. Catwoman had a point. None of them would back her on this one. Neither the current Batman, nor Robin, nor—she winced—Oracle. It was all well and good to say that she didn't need any of them, but she didn't need them ranged against her either.

"He deserves it," she whispered.

"I can't argue with that one."

"But you'll still try to talk me out of it."

"Damn right."

Huntress sighed. "I _must_ be getting soft."

Selina grinned. "Nah. You're wising up. Both of you meet me here on the roof tomorrow. Tell me what you've got and I'll see what I can turn up. Heck, you can even bring Bats Junior."

* * *

Dick made sure that he had all of his files, disc and hardcopy, safely stowed in his briefcase before he sat down to the table.

"Will you just say it already?" Tim demanded.

Dick blinked at him. "What for? Scarecrow's tricky. He set a trap. It worked. We'll get him tonight. End of story."

He grinned as Tim gaped at him. "Look. You've been at this long enough to know that one thing we try to do is predict the unpredictable. You had your nose plugs. You had your breathing mask. You both did. If Scarecrow had been using an inhalant like he normally does, you'd have been fine. Unless he sent you a memo saying 'by the way, I changed my formula; now it takes effect when it's absorbed into the skin' and you forgot about it, I don't see how you can be held accountable."

"Bruce would have found a way." Tim winced as a slogan he'd once read on a bumper sticker flashed into his mind: _Caution. Be sure brain is engaged before putting mouth into gear._

Dick nodded. "Yes. He would have. Right after he'd taken a faceful of the stuff." He sighed. "There's something you've got to learn, Tim. Something Bruce hasn't yet. And truth? I think it's the main reason why he's in Arkham right now."

Tim cocked his head, half-dreading the answer.

"Cut yourself a little slack." He clapped the youth on the shoulder and grabbed his briefcase. "I'll see you on the roof at Aurelius."

The boy smiled and swatted the hand away. "See you later, Bro."

Dick nodded. "Did you want to come with me tonight, when I pop in on Bruce?"

Tim looked away. "I know I should. But…" he let his voice trail off.

"Alright." Dick tried to keep from sounding disappointed.

"Before I go to 'Frisco. Honest." Tim looked down. "I just hate seeing him like that. And the thing is, he knows it. I… he doesn't need me sitting there and crying like some—"

"Like some kid who's lost his father? Maybe that would help. Bruce always puts others first, you know that. If he won't pull himself out of his funk for himself, then maybe he will for—"

"Yeah?" Tim demanded. "Then why haven't you tried it?"

"Because as much as it _hurts_ me to see him like that, I can put _him_ first and suppress it. And maybe, in this one instance, I can't break character and—"

"So, what? You're not selfish enough to try letting him know how you feel, but you'll push me into doing it? Thanks a lot, Bro!"

Dick blinked, trying to pinpoint exactly how the conversation had degenerated to this point. "All I meant," he said, trying to modulate his tone, "is that maybe something you say to him might get through. G-d knows I've been trying." He thought for a moment. "Listen. Bruce knows me. Maybe too well. When I go there, he's got a pretty good idea what I'm going to say or do. You're more unpredictable to him. I think that might be an advantage."

"Yeah, but he cares more about you." Tim shot back.

Dick's eyes widened. "Is _that_—" He stopped himself. He wasn't trying to accuse the younger man of jealousy, exactly. The truth was, though, that despite having lost his parents early on, and despite his later quarrels with Bruce, Dick had to admit that he'd seldom lacked for stability, or, as he had long ago told Bruce, 'the L-word'. Tim, in contrast, had been shunted from boarding school to boarding school. He'd never been neglected per se, but his parents had never really taken an interest in his life either. _When Bruce kept him off to the sidelines or…_ _Tim's sixteenth birthday 'present'_ _put him through the wringer making him believe that one of us, in the future, was going to turn traitor_… Dick grimaced at the memory. When Bruce had finally told him what he'd concocted for Tim, Dick had let him know, in no uncertain terms, how reprehensible that particular test had been.

He shook his head. When Bruce had taken him in years ago, he'd promised Dick that he would never try to replace the boy's father. He had kept his word. He'd never _tried_. But it had happened all the same.

And it hadn't happened with Tim. Dick realised that. Bruce had never presumed to make Dick choose between father and mentor—Jack had forced that choice all by himself. Had Tim somehow seen Bruce's lack of interference as a lack of interest?

Dick sighed. "That isn't true, Tim," he said wearily. "He's just had longer to learn how to let his guard down around me."

"Look," he added, "you don't want to go, don't go. I'll stop bothering you about it." He saw the younger man flinch and immediately banished the slight sense of satisfaction that he got from the knowledge that the boy felt at least _some_ guilt over his reluctance to visit. "I'll meet you and the others on the roof of Aurelius at about ten. Meanwhile, you head off to one of the satellite caves and see if the crays can turn up any clues about where Scarecrow might be holed up or what he's got planned."

Tim nodded, relieved at the change of subject. "You got it."

* * *

"So that's where we are, now." Montoya concluded. "Scarecrow's at large, and the deadline is currently at around fifty-nine hours and falling. We're watching the art shop in case he comes back, but it looks like he set his booby-trap and moved on." She sighed. "Detective Driver's sure he's going to issue another ultimatum. Or drop us another clue. I hope he's right. I don't suppose you've got any ideas, Batman?"

She didn't expect a reply. Sometimes, though, it helped her see things more clearly if she articulated them. And at least this way, she wasn't talking to herself. That could get embarrassing. Particularly, she thought, considering that there were a significant number of people on the force who resented her promotion to shift commander. She'd heard the whispers about affirmative action policies catapulting her over the shoulders of wiser, more experienced officers. She pretended not to be aware of them. It was harder to ignore the gossip that claimed that she'd slept her way into her captaincy. Nothing she couldn't deal with, though.

It took her a moment to realise that Bruce had shifted position on the cot, half-turning to face her.

Montoya nearly dropped the pen that she'd been fiddling with. In nearly a year, this was the first indication he'd given that he was even aware of her presence.

"What," Batman frowned, "was the name of the art supply shop?"

"Aurelius Arts," she said after a pause. "Does that mean anything?"

He nodded slowly. "If Crane is fixated on the number '74', yes." He closed his eyes, thinking. "In the year 174 CE," he said, "Marcus _Aurelius_ wrote his _Meditations_."

"Aurelius as in Aurelius Arts," Montoya breathed. "But what does that have to do with fear?"

"I don't know," Batman admitted. "I read it once. But that was long ago. I…" He looked away.

Montoya placed a hand against the mesh. "Thanks. I'll see if we can find a copy." She hesitated. Should she mention anything about his finally breaking whatever 'vow of silence' he'd seemed to have taken upon himself? She decided against it. If he was going speak to her without making a fuss, she could do the same. Still…

"One conversation with you, and suddenly we're light-years ahead of where we were last night."

Bruce's lips twisted. "I wouldn't be quite so effusive, Detective. The information may be useless to your investigation."

"Maybe," she agreed. "But I've worked in Major Crimes long enough to have developed a few instincts. And right now, they're telling me you could be on to something."

The smile died. "Don't confuse instincts with wishful thinking, Detective. I haven't been doing much in the way of crime-solving in a very long time. My speculations might be—"

"Right on the money," and as Bruce opened his mouth to speak, she raised a hand. The irony wasn't lost on her. _He's started talking for the first time in I don't know how long, and all I'm trying to do is shut him up._

"Look," she cut him off, "I know that you're speculating. You might be wrong. It's okay. I get it. I'm still going to follow up on it, alright?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I just thought of something else. If I can get the necessary approvals, would you mind if I brought you a few cases we're currently stuck on? No pressure," she added. "We haven't got the manpower to expend on investigations that aren't going anywhere. If you can crack any of them, great. If not, we're no worse off than we would be if I'd saved myself the hernia." Her eyes crinkled up at the corners. "We've got quite a bunch, now I think about it. And something tells me I'll only be able to get you hard copies. If you want them," she said.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever. Finally, Bruce spoke again. "If you can arrange that, Detective, I'll read over the files. I can't promise more than that."

Montoya got up. "I'll see what I can do, then."

She was gone before it occurred to him that he ought to have thanked her.

* * *

Tim sat hunched over one of the computers in a 'Bat-cave' not far from the East End. In point of fact, it was an underground bunker, which Patrick Morgan Wayne had built for use as a fallout shelter during the height of the Cold War. Bruce had discovered it when going over the blueprints of some of his grandfather's office buildings, decades later. He'd refurbished it, added extra security, and stocked it with food, medical supplies, hi-tech gadgets, and a computer set-up that rivalled anything S.T.A.R. Labs could offer.

A soft ping drew his attention to one of the displays. He frowned as he read off the analysis of the fear toxin. It was mostly Crane's usual formula. Mostly. He'd made a few alterations to it though, and the preliminary data seemed to indicate that their regular antidotes would take longer to work. In a contained environment, such as Arkham, an extra hour or so of panic wasn't as serious—as long as the patients remained under lock and key, and the staff followed whatever protocols they had in place—it might not be especially _pleasant_, but it wasn't exactly dangerous. A frenzied mob, on the other hand… Tim chewed his lower lip, as he typed instructions. Crane was no more immune to his concoctions than anybody else. Which meant that there _had_ to be a way to neutralise the stuff; Crane wouldn't dream of using it otherwise. It was just a question of finding out how.

Bart Allen was still offline. Tim knew that his former team mate was still struggling to fill a pair of fairly large boots. Although he was scarcely a recluse, nowadays the new Flash wasn't the easiest person to reach. The youth stifled a sigh. He'd already emailed Bart stressing the urgency of the situation. While his friend might just currently be the fastest man on Earth, when it came to returning messages, his speed left a lot to be desired.

He debated interrupting Barbara's away time. She so rarely took a vacation. Finally he settled for encrypting a summary of his encounter with Scarecrow from the night before, attaching his research files, and emailing the entire report to Barbara with a note that he'd appreciate another pair of eyes. If she was checking her messages, she'd pick this one up. And if she thought he needed her help, she'd contact him.

Tim thought for a moment. There were two avenues he could try while he was waiting: continue to experiment with various chemicals, and hope he could come up with a more effective antidote, or figure out where Scarecrow was and stop him. He had the computer working blithely on plan A. As for plan B…

Tim moved over to a second console, and began another search program. This time, he asked the computer to locate and attempt to correlate several keywords: fear, Aurelius, and seventy-four. It would take some time, but Tim could wait.

He thought about what 'Dana' had said to him the night before. _Was_ he really that close to becoming like Bruce? He hoped not. And yet… and yet he remembered meeting a futuristic version of himself wearing the Bat-suit. And that individual had been harsher than Tim had dreamed possible. Was this what he had to look forward to if he remained in Gotham? Or… would coldly abandoning Bruce be the first step on the path to becoming that person? Had he already taken that step?

It was with some measure of relief that he greeted the computer's signal that it had completed the first round of tests for a new antidote.

* * *

Bruce stretched out facedown on the cold concrete floor of his cell, legs together, hands flat beneath his shoulders, and slowly pushed himself up. _One_…_two…_ he was badly out of practice, he discovered. He was perspiring heavily by the time he'd done twenty. Still, it felt good.

Something had changed over the last few days. In point of fact, a few 'somethings' had changed. Jeremiah's ultimatum had forced Bruce to admit how important his family still was to him. His decision to at least make a show of cooperating with his new therapist had forced him to work out a strategy—a plan—the first one he'd attempted in over a year. Alex's casual neutralisation of the need for said strategy had infuriated, rather than relieved him. Bruce felt as though he had spent too long in one of Victor Fries' traps, and was only now beginning to thaw out.

He heard footsteps. Heavy boots stamped smartly on concrete. They stopped before his cell door. Bruce rose to his feet.

The door swung open, and the usual four guards trooped in, one of them pushing a wheelchair. "What's it going to be today, Wayne?" One of them drawled. "You going to sit down, or do we have to seat you?

Bruce shook his head. That was something else that he was going to change starting right now. "I'll walk," he stated. "You won't need to bring that again."

His 'entourage' exchanged glances. Dubiously, one pushed the chair out. Bruce followed him as the other three brought up the rear.

"Wait," ordered the one with the chair. "I got to put this back." He turned to the others. "Watch him."

Bruce fought the urge to roll his eyes. Did they really think that he was in any condition to attempt an escape? He frowned. From what he could overhear of the whispered consultation behind him, evidently, they did.

"…Safe with him…"

"If he makes a break…"

"Restraints, maybe?"

He shook his head. Didn't these idiots know anything about basic psychology? They were supposed to positively reinforce the behaviour they wanted to encour… comprehension dawned. The guards didn't want trouble. And in their eyes, his sudden assertiveness might spell 'trouble'. He set his jaw firmly. That, he concluded, was their problem.

The first guard returned empty-handed, and one of the others beckoned him over. Bruce decided that enough was enough. He didn't especially want another session with Alex, but standing out here in the corridor was beginning to annoy him. And the new doctor had been right about one thing: Bruce did appreciate being out of his cell.

He took a step forward. The guards continued to argue. Bruce shrugged and kept walking. He'd gone about fifteen feet down the corridor before they finally noticed.

"Hey. HEY!" Immediately one of them was running toward him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Bruce stopped, and turned calmly to face his interrogator. "Third floor, office 309," he replied. He'd noted the number automatically, yesterday.

The guard was not amused. He seized Bruce by the shoulders of his uniform and slammed his back against the wall. "You do not walk away from us, Wayne. You listening? When WE don't move, YOU don't move. You don't take two steps outside your cell without us following you!"

Bruce regarded him stoically. "Noted," he said.

Enraged at Bruce's placid reply, the guard pressed him to the wall with one hand, while he drew the other one back. Bruce tensed, steeling himself for the blow.

"Haney, wait!" One of the other guards called frantically. "The cameras…"

Bruce's captor, whose name appeared to be 'Haney', froze in place. He looked at Bruce, and then looked over his shoulder at his companion. Abruptly, he let go of Bruce's shirt, and took hold of his arm.

"Let's go, Wayne," he snarled. "And no tricks." The other guards came forward, then. Bruce noticed that two of them seemed to have got hold of tasers from somewhere. The third gripped Bruce's other arm. The others took up position ahead and behind.

Bruce sighed inwardly, but resigned himself to his 'retinue'.

* * *

A second session passed, much as the first one had. Alex greeted Bruce, suggested he take a seat, indicated the bookcases, and proceeded to do his crossword puzzles.

Bruce watched him scrawling away. He didn't seem to be much good at them, from the look of it. He kept turning to the back of the book, frowning, and, more often than not, reaching for the bottle of correction fluid.

"You should use a pencil," Bruce said finally, as Alex waited for the Liquid Paper to dry.

"Probably," Alex agreed. "It just makes me feel like I'm setting myself up for failure." He sighed, and picked up the bottle of Liquid Paper again. "Not that feeling this grow progressively lighter is exactly filling me with confidence." He returned to the puzzle.

"I need a seven-letter word," he began. "It means 'to amuse', and it ends with a 't'.

"Disport." Bruce said without meaning to.

Alex beamed. "It fits. Thanks!" His fingers flew as he filled in more boxes. A moment later, he looked up again. "That 'p' in the middle," he said, "it's the second letter of a seven-letter word meaning 'to dispute the validity of'.

Bruce nodded. He knew that one too. "Try 'oppugn'."

Alex tilted his head. "Are you sure?" He asked. "Not that I mean to… oppugn… your suggestion, of course…"

Bruce turned away abruptly. He should have known better than to start. Give the man a couple of crossword clues and he was already trying to kid around, and acting as though they were friends. _Stockholm Syndrome hasn't quite kicked in for me yet. So sorry to disappoint you._

Alex shrugged and went back to his puzzle. After a moment, Bruce glanced back in his direction. The doctor was checking the answers again. Bruce ignored him.

"Well, our time's about up," Alex said a few minutes later.

Bruce rose to his feet.

"By the way, I'm approving Captain Montoya's request to have you read through those case files."

He walked to the door and opened it without waiting for Bruce's reaction.

"All done, Doctor Morgenstern?"

Bruce squared his shoulders and headed for the exit. He stopped. The guard advancing toward him was brandishing a set of fabric restraints.

"Hold out your hands," he ordered.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alex rapped out angrily.

"There was an incident on the way here," Haney replied. "We don't need a repeat."

Bruce assessed the situation. He could probably fight if he had to, but he was out of practice. And the guards had tasers. He might be able to take them anyway. There were only four of them. But then, to what end? Leaving the asylum was not an option. Not after what he'd done. And if he fought back, sooner or later he'd have to stop. It would only be worse when he stopped. Resigned, he extended his hands.

"What kind of incident?" Alex demanded.

Oh, for the love of… am I **asking** for you to intervene? Go back to cheating on your crosswords, why don't you? 

The guards looked at each other, and then down at the floor. Finally, Haney spoke. "He tried to ditch us outside his cell. You know we've got to escort him."

Alex nodded. "Yes, I'm not disputing that. But if one of you was holding onto the wheelchair at all times, like you're supposed to," he stopped. "Exactly where _is_ the wheelchair?"

Haney swallowed. "He didn't want it."

"Really." Alex said in disbelief. He looked at Bruce and then back at Haney. "So, as I understand it, Mr. Wayne," he looked at Bruce again. "You chose to actively participate in a scheduled event, namely this session, and you," he stared pointedly at Haney, "are looking to penalise him? On whose authority did you decide this?"

"We're allowed to make a judgement call if we—"

Alex raised a hand to still the burly man's protest. "No restraints, gentlemen. Not until you're able to procure written authorisation from Dr. Arkham."

"He's gone for the day," one of the other men protested.

Alex sighed. "How unfortunate for you. I suppose you'll just have to forgo those… things," he gestured distastefully at the straps, "until you're able to contact him; unless Mr. Wayne does something to warrant them other than trying to be on time for our meetings, of course. That will be all, gentlemen," he snapped.

"Mr. Wayne," Alex added calmly, "I'll see you again tomorrow."

Bruce ignored him.

* * *

"You do fill the suit pretty well, Junior." Catwoman kept her tone light to mask her discomfort. He definitely had the right 'stuff' to be Batman, but his moves, his stance, his mannerisms—all were 'off'. The dissonance bothered her.

"Thanks. And thanks for last night."

She smiled. "_He_ wouldn't have thanked me, you know. You need to work on that."

"I'll pass. Have you managed to find anything out?" He noted with approval that Huntress had chosen a different costume tonight, one that covered her completely from the neck down. Robin had done the same.

Catwoman sighed. "I've been out of the loop for a few months. A lot of my older sources have dried up. I'm still working on it."

Robin cleared his throat. "I might have something. Bestine."

Batman leaned forward. "What?"

"It's a solvent," Catwoman said. "It's used to thin glue. And it's extremely bad for the nervous system."

"It's also one of the components in Scarecrow's new blend," Robin said. "And Aurelius stocks it."

Huntress frowned. "So do most hardware stores. Why come here?"

"Because," Batman said with dawning comprehension, "once we analysed the chemical composition of the gas Scarecrow used as a diversion when he broke out of Arkham, the next logical step would be to put as many pharmacies and hardware stores as possible under surveillance. Art supply shops wouldn't necessarily register on the radar."

"And leaving us the message?" Huntress asked.

"He already got what he needed," Robin answered. "The message was just to bait the trap."

"Exactly," Batman smiled. "Here's something else: I swung by GCPD on the way over here. Montoya found something out." He told them.

"The _Meditations_?" Robin said. "I don't get it. How does that fit his MO?"

Huntress sighed. "I'm not sure about this. It's been awhile."

"You've read it?" Batman asked.

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the vigilante appeared to be blushing. "I had a real chip on my shoulder when I was a kid. I always felt I had something to prove. So I forced myself to read the _Meditations_ in Italian, because I didn't think a translation could do it justice." She sighed. "Then after I finished the thing, someone told me that the original was actually written in Greek."

Catwoman laughed. "Lovely. So what's in it?"

"Well," Huntress said, "basically, his point is that the only way a person can be hurt is if he lets his reactions overpower him."

"Reaction as in fear gas," Robin nodded.

"Lack of control," Batman agreed, "lack of inhibitions, that could be it." _Definitely something that would get to Bruce. In fact,_ he realised as he remembered his visit the night after the break-out, _it did. To the point where he had to have control of the situation, even if it meant telling me to leave earlier than I'd planned._ "Alright," he said. "If Crane's got a fixation on the number 74, this time, and on Marcus Aurelius, we've got a very general idea of where to start looking for him. Let's try to find addresses containing '74' in them—"

"There've got to be thousands," Huntress exclaimed. "Not to mention 74th _Street_, the number 74 bus-route… buildings that were constructed in 1974…" She waved her hands wildly in the air. "Buildings with seventy-four floors!"

"_And_ a connection with Marcus Aurelius," Batman finished. "Remember, if Scarecrow plans to release the fear toxin, he's got to put it in the water, or let it loose in a stadium, or some other place where there's a crowd. He needs a place to store it until he needs it. That's going to narrow it down."

The other three nodded. He continued. "Robin, you're with me. We'll check out the industrial area. Huntress," he paused. "Have you got anything to protect your face?"

She held up the breathing mask that Robin had procured from the cave for her earlier. It wasn't much different from Selina's. Dick nodded approval.

"Good. You and Catwoman, check around the reservoir. Meet back here about an hour before dawn. Let's go."

* * *

"This is like looking for a needle in a haystack," Huntress muttered. "What if he moves his hideout every hour as the countdown falls?"

Catwoman sniffed. "Even he isn't that crazy. I… wait! Look down there!"

Huntress followed her pointing finger. A man wearing a rough burlap tunic, orange leggings, and a battered straw hat was moving stealthily down a narrow alley. "It's not Crane," she whispered. "Too muscular."

Catwoman nodded agreement. "Looks like he's got himself a henchman. So, let's stalk him." A feral grin spread her lips. "Wish I knew if he was going _to_ or coming _from_ his boss."

"We can find out," Huntress said. "You follow him, and I'll check out the alley. If we maintain radio contact, we'll be fine."

Catwoman considered. "Remember to put the mask on before you step indoors. And turn your com-link on now."

The younger woman spun angrily. "I'm not some amateur, you know."

"That's why you can recognise good advice when you hear it." She sighed. "You don't have anything to prove to anybody. Just catch him if you see him." She took a running start and leaped from the edge of the building. A split-second later, her whip uncoiled, snaked upward, and wrapped itself twice around a horizontal flagpole protruding from an adjacent building several stories higher.

Huntress grimaced. But she pulled out the mask, muttering under her breath as she adjusted the fastenings.

* * *

The door was unlocked. Huntress checked over her costume to make sure that she was completely covered. Satisfied, she loaded her crossbow and advanced stealthily down the dark corridor. Night-vision lenses stood her in good stead.

She rounded the corner and saw light emanating from a crack under a door directly in front of her.

"I think I found him," she whispered into the com-link.

Catwoman's reply wasn't long in coming. "Get out of there. I'm on my way."

Half of her wanted to protest. The sensible half, however, reminded her that a little backup wasn't a bad idea. She spun on her heel. A light flickered on.

She froze. A spindly figure in ragged burlap barred her path.

"_You weren't leaving just yet, were you, Huntress?"_


	6. Chapter 6: Weight of the World

Authors Note: The book Bruce picks up is _Over Sea, Under Stone_ by Susan Cooper. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1965, 1989)

"Little Hercules" lyrics written by Craig Carothers and performed by Trisha Yearwood on her _Everybody Knows_ CD (MCA, 1996)

* * *

Made a life where no one ever tells you what to do

Now the only tyrant that you're working for is you

It's never easy

To keep all those promises you make

But no one's going to get you fired

If you just give yourself a break

And if you feel the weight of the world, put your mind at ease…

--Craig Carothers, "Little Hercules"

* * *

Weight of the World

Huntress brought up her crossbow in one swift motion. "Don't try me, Scarecrow," she said grimly. "Unlike some of the other vigilantes in this city, I don't have a strict 'no killing' policy."

Underneath the fine mesh fabric that made up the lower portion of Crane's facemask, Helena could see the faintest outline of a smile. "I'm sure you don't, my dear," he said. He clapped his hands once, rapidly, and a strong fruity scent filled the air.

Helena blinked at the incongruity of the gesture. In a split second, Crane was gone.

"You didn't want to hurt _me_, did you, Ms. Bertinelli?" A child's voice piped up.

She gasped. Cody now stood before her, seemingly no worse for wear.

"Huntress! Huntress, are you out?" Selina's frantic question jolted her back to awareness. The hand, which had been about to lower the crossbow, steadied. Cody shouldn't be here. If he was, he shouldn't be calling her by her civilian name. And why would Crane have let cloying lemon-clove fragrance loose, unless… one of the vilest oaths she'd ever heard her cousins utter surfaced in her thoughts. Tim had warned her about the hallucinatory after-effects of Scarecrow's latest concoction...

White-hot fury overwhelmed her. "Sometimes we all get to do things we don't want to," she snapped. Crane had miscalculated, though: Cody was a couple of feet shorter.

"Huntress, speak to me! I've alerted the others. We're on our way."

The young woman held her weapon higher. "Don't sweat it, Catwoman," she said. "I won't kill him." _Intentionally_. She closed her eyes. Crane was about six feet tall, with most of his height in his legs. Which meant that she should be aiming… Her free hand fumbled for the gold crucifix she wore around her neck as she released the bolt from the crossbow. The taut string reverberated as the missile sang through the air.

Crane shrieked.

Huntress opened her eyes to see the Scarecrow plucking the bolt out of his upper chest. To her untrained eye, it looked as though it had hit the collarbone and stopped. Painful, but hardly fatal. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her expression hardened. She took an angry step toward Crane.

He looked up from nursing his shoulder. "Keep away from me you crazy witch!" He gasped. His free hand pushed frantically on the lever-bar that opened the door.

"Oh no, you don't!" She spat, charging.

Crane was already through the door, adrenaline pushing him onward despite his injury. The door started to close behind him. Huntress barreled through as she heard a yelp from outside. Several yards away, her quarry rose into the air, a cable capped with a signature stylized bat wrapped securely above his torso. Nightwing had the cable's other end flung over the horizontal flagpole that Catwoman had used earlier. He waited until Crane's kicking feet were roughly at his eye level. Then, he roped the costumed criminal's ankles tightly to the pole's bracket and knotted the line.

"Situation under control, Catwoman," Huntress heard him say into his comlink. He smiled at her. "Nice work. You okay?"

She nodded. "Fine. There was straw on the floor back there. I figured…" She exhaled. "Good thing you got here when you did. She smiled. "I haven't seen you around much lately."

"I've been keeping a lower profile," he grinned. "I can't say I'll be out _too_ often, given my current situation, but once in awhile…"

"You miss it," she nodded understanding. "Crane's not going anywhere," she added. "Let's go back in and check out his latest hideyhole."

* * *

Five minutes later, Nightwing let out a low whistle. "Nightwing to Robin. How far are you from Central?"

Whatever answer he got seemed to please him.

"Listen carefully. Go there now. Tell Montoya or Sawyer that Scarecrow has a batch of his latest concoction under the commuter rail tracks on the western side of North Island, about 74 yards south of the mouth of the Peterson tunnel, right where it crosses over Marcus Boulevard. Time was going to be up at 5:40 p.m., day after tomorrow. "

Huntress blinked. "Not 7:40?" She asked.

He shook his head. "Seven_teen_ forty. This," he rolled his eyes, "is the difference between a true obsessive compulsive, like, say Two-Face, and someone who's decided that a certain number sounds like it would be… fun to incorporate. Bet Crane used poetic license in English composition class, too."

He turned his attention back to the comlink. "Still there, Robin? Good. From the plans Crane's got here, he's got the thing on a timer. The bomb's angled so that if it explodes, the bulk of the fear toxin lands in the reservoir, but some of it will hit the streets too. No, let the bomb squad handle that one. That's what they're there for. Nightwing out."

Huntress regarded him quizzically. "You're not going to do it yourself?"

"GCPD can stop the trains," he pointed out. "They can also work in daylight. And this way, they get the credit for stopping Crane based on an anonymous tip. So the press doesn't get to write up it's usual 'GCPD needs vigilantes to do their dirty work for them' diatribe. Everyone wins."

"Except us."

"Top brass knows we lent a hand. Everyone wins," he said with finality. "Oh, and here." He tossed her a small syringe. "Robin found a counter for the toxin. This should clear up any lingering hallucinations."

* * *

"Looks like Tim didn't need me after all," Barbara said later. She sighed theatrically. "It's good to be home."

"Well _I _needed you, Red," Dick protested. "What did the doc have to say about Cass?"

Barbara's expression grew thoughtful. "He's trying kinesthetic learning with her. He's got her working with the shapes of the letters. You know 'A is for agate, B is for brass'. She's got a little bag with the letters of the alphabet in different materials and colors. It seems to be working." She exhaled. "Or she might just be memorizing the materials. The real trick will be if she can identify the letters when they're printed on a page. But Dr. McLeod wants us to wait a week or so before we take that step.

"So," she grinned, "how did it feel being back in the black-and-blue?"

Dick smiled back. "Like I'd never been away. I'll have to try it again sometime."

"Despite your very… public… persona."

"Well, that's why I don't do it that often," he said as he crossed to the coffeepot. He poured himself a cup and inhaled the aroma, closing his eyes in satisfaction.

"But every so often," he continued, "Nightwing has to put in an appearance because Dick Grayson is Nightwing and Dick Grayson now resides in Gotham. And if Dick Grayson doesn't wear the Nightwing suit occasionally, people _might_ start thinking he's the new Batman."

"Imagine that," Barbara smiled. "The ideas that cross some people's minds."

"I know," Dick said. "Crazy. Well, I'm going home to hit the hay." He stooped to kiss her. "See you later."

"Dick," Barbara called after him. "About what we discussed before? I think…" she looked away nervously.

Then she drew a deep breath and turned back. "I think you're right. I think that maybe we should start looking for something a bit more central—together. I mean… if you still feel the way you…"

Dick clasped her hands in his. "I still love you, Babs. And I'll keep saying it as often as you need to hear it."

* * *

Bruce walked slowly down the corridor, two guards leading him, two bringing up the rear. He didn't speak, but instead concentrated on matching his steps precisely to those of his captors, maintaining a three pace distance before and behind. It was 45 paces to the elevator at the end of the passageway, then a two-minute wait for the elevator. Another 50 seconds brought him from the basement level to the third floor, and then another 20 paces to office 309. After two sessions, he had it memorized.

Alex greeted him as he had on the earlier occasions and motioned him toward the sofa. Bruce sat.

As before, Alex made no effort to engage him in conversation. Bruce reflected. If Alex's behavior ran true to form, then the silence would persist until Bruce chose to break it. If he did not choose to break it, then Alex would continue to cheat at his crossword puzzles. It might be interesting to see how long the psychiatrist would be able to keep playing this game. Bruce frowned. No. It wouldn't be at all interesting.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the man at the desk. Alex's body language was completely relaxed. He didn't seem to be waiting for any attempt at communication on Bruce's part. Bizarre as it seemed, Bruce was beginning to believe that Alex had been serious about not bothering to try to treat him, if Bruce didn't want to be treated. The ball, as it were, was squarely in his court. Bruce mulled that over.

Did he want to be 'cured'? What exactly would that mean? The idea that some sort of counseling might prove helpful to him wasn't a new concept. He'd actually considered the notion in the past. But therapy would have meant opening up. It wasn't just about 'the secret', although it was still a consideration; the rest of his family had secrets of their own that he might inadvertently expose. On top of that, it would have meant picking at old wounds that still hadn't healed over. And, if those wounds were what ultimately fueled Batman's quest, then what would happen if they _did_ heal over? Bruce didn't always _like_ the person he was, but at least he thought he knew the _kind_ of person he was. Without his personal demons spurring him on… he couldn't even conceive of what he might be. _Better the devil he knew…_

he want to be 'cured'? What exactly would that mean? The idea that some sort of counseling might prove helpful to him wasn't a new concept. He'd actually considered the notion in the past. But therapy would have meant opening up. It wasn't just about 'the secret', although it was still a consideration; the rest of his family had secrets of their own that he might inadvertently expose. On top of that, it would have meant picking at old wounds that still hadn't healed over. And, if those wounds were what ultimately fueled Batman's quest, then what would happen if they heal over? Bruce didn't always the person he was, but at least he thought he knew the of person he was. Without his personal demons spurring him on… he couldn't even conceive of what he might be. 

His eyes slid guardedly to Alex. The psychiatrist was looking at the solutions at the back of the magazine again. Well, let him. Why should Bruce be the only one who didn't know all the answers anymore? Still, Alex had helped him in one way at least.

"I suppose I should thank you for yesterday."

Alex looked up with a surprised smile. "You're welcome."

Silence ensued. A moment later, Alex returned to the crossword.

Bruce rose and walked over to the bookcase. He skimmed the titles. Alex seemed to have stocked classics, mass-market paperbacks, school textbooks, there were even a few popular children's' books. His eyes lit on a series he'd enjoyed as a child. Almost without realizing it, he pulled the first volume free. He sat back down on the sofa and opened to Chapter One.

"Where is he?"

Barney hopped from one foot to the other…

The narrative worked the same magic on him that it had when he had first read it thirty-odd years ago. He read on…

…Was it time to go already? He'd only just sat down. But yes, Alex was opening the door to admit the guards.

Bruce rose. "Can I…" He paused, and corrected himself. "May I borrow this?"

Alex glanced at the book. "I'd need to get clearance for that," he said apologetically. "It might take a day or so."

Bruce feigned indifference. "Don't bother, then," he said. "It's not important."

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham frowned, hearing the raised voices outside his office.

"…Can't just barge in—"

"Watch me."

Arkham recognized the speaker. And, the director had a fair idea of why he'd come. He could feel a tension headache coming on.

An instant later the door opened to admit a man whom the newspapers had once referred to as 'the laughing boy wonder'.

He wasn't laughing now.

"Mr. Grayson," Arkham said with forced politeness. "To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?"

Dick slapped a CD-ROM, still in its protective jewel case, down on the asylum director's desk. "Play it," he snapped. "Track six."

Jeremiah sighed, but he slid the disc into his computer and called up the appropriate track. "I'd be interested in knowing where you got this," he remarked as the screen showed an open cell door. A moment later, a guard walked out pushing an empty wheelchair. Bruce followed, three more guards close on his heels.

"That's the least of your worries," Dick said meaningfully. "Keep watching."

Arkham sighed again. The last time Grayson had stormed into his office had been the day he'd had to suspend Dr. McKeever pending an investigation into inappropriate conduct. That time as well, the young man had produced a copy of the asylum's own surveillance recordings. How he'd gotten them, the director couldn't say. But the images had been genuine. As this one was. Arkham leaned forward, chewing his lower lip as he watched.

"Yes," he harrumphed, trying to maintain his composure. "Well, I can understand why you'd be upset seeing this. I'll be sure to take appropriate measures."

Grayson nodded. "Yes. You will. Or I'll see to it that this disc runs on every local network affiliate." He paused. "And if it's a slow news day? It might even go national." He waited for his words to sink in before he leaned across the director's desk, meeting Arkham's steely gray eyes with glacial blue ones.

"You keep Dan Haney as far away from my father as possible," he said quietly. "Assign him to an area of the asylum where he'll have no chance of coming into contact with Bruce again. Because if I look at any of your surveillance data again, and I happen to see Haney within the same frame as Bruce?" He kept his voice soft, as he continued. "I'm going to call up one of my friends in Metropolis. He's an investigative journalist. And I'll suggest to him that he might want to investigate the way you run this place." He smiled. "You've probably heard of my friend, Dr. Arkham. His name is Clark Kent. And he loves a good story. Almost as much as his wife does."

He leaned a bit further over and retrieved his disc. "I'll be seeing you around, Doctor."

* * *

"Wayne, visitor!" Bruce heard a voice call.

Montoya was coming a bit earlier than usual today, he thought. No… the footfalls were a bit slower, and belonged to a heavier person. He heard the muffled squeak of a rubber-tipped cane as it tapped deliberately on the stone floor.

Bruce drew a deep breath, steeling himself. He had to be strong, for Jim's sake.

Gordon took a seat before the window. "Good morning, Bruce," he said quietly.

Silence. The former commissioner's brow furrowed. "I've…" he began awkwardly. "I've missed our conversations." He sighed. "I know. You've heard this before. Or maybe you haven't. I'm never sure how much of what I say gets through to you. But I don't know what else I can talk about that might stand a chance of penetrating that thick head of yours."

Bruce didn't respond. But Gordon thought something seemed different today. After a moment it came to him: This time, Bruce was struggling not to respond. Good. He'd been waiting for something like this. Gordon thought for a moment.

"I took a swing at you during the No Man's Land when you weren't expecting it." He said seriously. "Can't we just call it even?"

"That was different." Bruce's voice was barely audible. "I… deserved it."

"Well, you don't deserve _this_." He gestured expansively. "Bruce," he hesitated. "After all these years," he thought carefully about how he wanted to phrase his next words, "I think I know how… important… it is for you to be in control of a situation. You've always felt that you had to be in charge, oversee every last detail. You had to be the responsible one. And, I'll be the first to admit that because of it, I was able to feel I could trust your judgment and let you operate with little… police interference. But Bruce," he said, "I am telling you right now that when somebody dissolves large quantities of Desoxyn in your food, you are _not_ responsible for your actions. Now," he continued, "I want you to pay extremely close attention what I'm going to ask you next, Bruce." He drew a deep breath. "What," he demanded, voice rising in volume, "is it going to take before you stop moping and start thinking?"

Jim didn't understand, Bruce realized. Control wasn't the issue. It wasn't. Haltingly, he tried to find the words to explain: whether he'd meant to injure Jim wasn't the point. It was the simple fact that he had. Actions, not intent, were what counted. He hadn't let Superman off the hook for his actions under Maxwell Lord's influence. How could he allow himself such a loophole? Bruce tried to make Gordon see. He was more than halfway through relating what had happened at the JLA moon-base when Gordon's brow furrowed, not in confusion but in rage.

"You hold it right there, Mister! If you can't forgive a man for nearly killing you, I can't say as I blame you. But where do you get off deciding if you can't, nobody else can?"

Dimly, he knew that his anger was directed at the situation, but to hell with that. Bruce was proving to be a most convenient outlet.

"You want to try to take responsibility for what happened almost a year ago? Fine. But you can't have all the credit. What about me? You think I don't know that a trained fighter, _any_ trained fighter, can instinctively lash out if someone comes into physical contact with him while he's sleeping? I grabbed you anyway, so some of what happened was my fault, wasn't it? How about the officers on guard detail who didn't stop me? Or… or… hospital security for not testing your food?" He dropped his voice until it was little more than a harsh whisper. "Here's an offbeat suggestion for you. Why not try blaming _Elliott _for feeding you those damned pills in the first place?"

Bruce shook his head. "I should have—"

"What?" Gordon demanded. "What? My G-d. Are you that much of a… a control freak that you…" He broke off. "Yes. I suppose you are." He pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"I… I just don't know what to say anymore. You've dug your heels in and there's no budging you on this, is there? I haven't got a clue how to convince you that you've been beating yourself up needlessly over this whole business." He pressed one hand against the mesh screen.

"You're a stubborn man, and it's damned near impossible work convincing you when you've already made your mind up. But there are a couple of things you're overlooking, Bruce." He smiled grimly. "I'm about twenty-five years older than you are. That's twenty-five years more stubbornness than you've had the opportunity to acquire. You think _you_ had it rough after the mob war when Akins turned on you? You should have had my beat in Chicago. After that, Gotham actually looked _better_. And this was when Loeb ran the force. There were a million times I could've ignored the graft going on around me. G-d knows my life would've been easier. Except, I'm too damned obstinate or idiotic to know when to quit. And I've been that way longer than you've been alive!

"Now, I've never had many friends." He looked away for a moment. "And I've buried more than a few of the ones I have had. But you know what they say. The more you lose, the tighter you hold on to what you've got left. So, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Bruce, but I'm not going to stop coming here. That stubbornness I was mentioning a minute ago? I'm channeling it. I'm not going to give in, and I'm not giving up on you. And even if _you_ don't value our friendship, _I do!_"

"I never said I didn't value it," Bruce protested. "But I can't…"

Gordon cut him off. "Fine. Let me ask you something, then. And I want you to give me an honest answer. Give me an honest answer, and if that's your decision, I'll respect it. Do you want me to walk out of here, and not come back?"

As Bruce opened his mouth to reply, Gordon held up a hand. "Listen to the question. I'm not asking you if you think it's for the best, or whether it's no more than you deserve, or a million and one other questions. Put every other consideration aside. Do you want me to leave… and not come back?

In his decades on the force, Gordon had gained the ability to pinpoint when a suspect, faced with the evidence against him was about to confess. He'd never expected to see Bruce with that same panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look, but he was seeing it now. Gordon could almost hear the thoughts churning in his friend's mind as he tried to find some loophole to the question.

Finally Bruce closed his eyes. "No," he whispered, defeated. "I don't."

The former police commissioner nodded. His own voice was barely louder than Bruce's had been. "That's about what I'd figured."

* * *

It was another two days before Brett Carter returned to the Iceberg Lounge. Or at least, he tried to. Cobblepot watched the entire drama unfold on the camera feed.

Carter attempted to enter via the main doors, only to find his way blocked by a wiry young man perhaps a head shorter than the former special agent.

"Get out of my way, midget," the larger man snarled. "I've got business with your boss."

Tai shook his head. "He not want see you," he replied.

Carter snarled. "No speakee 'Ching-chong', bug-eater. Beat it."

Cobblepot pressed the intercom button on his desk. "I believe I'd like a light refreshment, Maisie," he announced. "Have a tray of marinated anchovy tapas sent in, there's a dear." He'd recruited Tai especially from the Jade Serpent Triad. This was going to be entertaining.

On the screen, Carter tried to shove the smaller man out of the way. Tai grabbed his hand and forced it nearly perpendicular to his wrist. The heavier man fought not to cry out from the pain. "Big man with big mouth. Too bad you not have big brain to match," Tai mocked. "You go away now. Mr. Cobblepot, she not want you come in." He released the former agent.

Unobtrusively, a server entered the office and set the tapa tray down on the desk.

Outside, Carter held out both hands in a conciliatory gesture, and turned as if to leave. Suddenly he whirled back, and charged.

Tai was ready for him. He stepped to one side, seized Carter's arm as the bigger man ran past, twisted, and flipped him neatly over one shoulder. Before his attacker could recover, Tai kicked him viciously in the ribs.

Cobblepot reached absently for his second tapa.

A crowd quickly poured out of the Iceberg, surrounding the two combatants and obscuring them from the view of any passerby. The cameras, however, continued to monitor the fight.

Carter rallied, managing to find his feet again, but whatever fighting techniques he'd learned during his time with the Agency were obviously no match for the Iceberg bouncer's. When the younger man broke off his attack, Carter was back on the pavement, bruised and bloody.

Tai stood over him. "You can get up?" He asked solicitously.

The larger man did so slowly. One hand pressed carefully against his lower ribcage, as Carter's mouth gaped open in an expression of pain.

"You can walk?"

Carter nodded.

"You walk now. You not try come here 'gain. You understand me?"

Another nod.

"Very good," Tai smiled unpleasantly. "You learnee 'ching-chong' fast. Now go away."

The crowd parted to let Carter pass.

Cobblepot smiled with satisfaction. Then, he crammed another two tapas into his mouth. After he had washed them down with a glass of Ramos Pinto 30-year Tawny, he dialed the pager number that Kuttler had given him earlier.

Twenty minutes later, his telephone rang.

"Carter was here," Cobblepot stated. "I've just had him run off. Now what?"

"Now," the voice on the other end said smugly, "we let him stew a short while longer."

* * *

The first thing Bruce noticed when they came for him the next afternoon was that Haney was missing. In his place stood another orderly, no less big or less beefy.

The second thing he noticed was that his escorts seemed somewhat cautious today. Curious.

Alex was still doing his puzzles. Bruce rolled his eyes as he walked past the desk and crossed to the bookcase.

"I never really got into the _Dark_ _is Rising_ sequence," Alex said. "I read the second one, and kept meaning to pick up the others."

"What stopped you?" Bruce asked.

"I think I discovered Lloyd Alexander," Alex admitted. "He wrote—"

"The Prydain chronicles," Bruce nodded, thinking back. Dick had loved those books. He'd devoured all five in his tenth summer. Up until then, Bruce hadn't been certain that his ward was capable of sitting still for longer than an hour or so at a stretch. He smiled at the memory, forgetting his surroundings for a moment. "They're modern classics," he added.

"Are they?" Alex shrugged. "I just remember liking them. And I specifically remember not liking the classics I was supposed to be reading in English class." He thought for a moment. "If I recall correctly, we had to do one of Steinbeck's stories in sixth grade."

Bruce frowned. "Not _The Red Pony_?"

"I'm afraid so. Hideous thing to make a child read."

That was one statement Bruce could agree with. The last subject he'd wanted to study in detail at that point in his life had been the story of a boy who was given a pony for his birthday, only to watch it suffer an agonizing illness and death. "A year later," he ventured, "they had _The Pearl_ on the syllabus."

Alex whistled. "And they wonder how kids get turned off from reading. If there were texts on the reading list that the kids actually liked to read…"

"The administration would assume that they couldn't possibly hold any literary merit," Bruce finished, smiling slightly.

Alex laughed. "Very true. If…"

Bruce stopped listening. Something had just occurred to him. Although Alex was probably analyzing everything he said, Bruce realized, the doctor was letting him steer the conversation in whichever direction he chose. In fact… Bruce thought, Alex had been giving him that control from the outset. Of course it was illusory. Alex and the rest of the Arkham staff held all the cards. And if Alex chose to do so, he could assert his authority in a heartbeat. Somehow, though, Bruce didn't think he would. And with that insight, he felt himself relax.

He blinked. Alex was looking at him expectantly. "Sorry," he admitted. "I was thinking." And he'd just handed the psychiatrist a golden opportunity to press him for further details.

Alex didn't take it. "That can happen now and again," he observed. "I've been told it can even be habit-forming." Then he grinned and repeated the question.

* * *

Garfield Lynns saw himself as an artist. His works were composed of light and heat, and, although they were only temporary, each was a thing of beauty while it lasted. He knew his medium. He knew which tools suited his purpose best. And he could always choose the right vantage point at which to view his creations.

Case in point: Caldon Incorporated, Gotham City's prime producer of low explosive pyrotechnics—also known as fireworks.

An hour ago, just as the sun was setting, Lynns had scaled the chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter of the factory, his equipment stowed safely in a large backpack. He hadn't bothered trying to set a fuse—if he made one mistake with the timer, he'd find it out an instant before the end. Like most artists, he was prepared to suffer for his craft, but he wanted to be around to appreciate the aesthetics, first.

A handkerchief soaked in ether sufficed to take out the lone security guard. Lynns carefully poured more of the liquid into a Ziploc bag and pressed the top edges together firmly to seal it. This he taped carefully to a cellphone that he'd prepared earlier. The tricky part of working with explosives was always making sure that they didn't go off prematurely. Lynns had placed a small explosive charge within the phone's electronic innards. The device was harmless… until somebody dialed the cell's number. Lynns had it memorized.

It only took a few minutes to deactivate the burglar alarm, enter the building, and jimmy open the door to the first room he came to—a reception office of some sort. He deposited the bundle on a chair in the waiting room, and left the way that he had come.

* * *

He waited until night fell before he detonated the phone. The colors would contrast better against a dark sky.

At first, Lynns could see only a white cloud of smoke that enveloped the structure. An eerie grating sound, like a siren on a child's toy fire engine accompanied the haze. Then a black cloud engulfed the factory. Some of the fireworks within exploded immediately, starbursts of color spilling through blown-out windows. The black lightened to gray. Feathery zigzags of white smoke flew in all directions, creating an ethereal fog-like effect. From within the fog, sparks appeared. Some were mere flashes of light. Others gleamed red or violet as they detonated. Then, a streak of pink light flashed past the confines of the smoke cloud. Seconds later, a flash of green was visible, then blue. Like kernels in an air-popper, the interval between the light-bursts narrowed. Now more were going off at once. The white smoke seemed to tremble and flicker for a moment, before a burst of orange flame appeared at its heart. It expanded, nearly doubling in size in less than three seconds. New, smaller pockets of flame appeared a short distance away from the main blaze.

One minute and thirty-four seconds after the first incendiaries had detonated, a fireball engulfed the factory—and every structure within a two-block radius. Most buildings within an additional block of that perimeter suffered smoke and fire damage. In all, three hundred and forty-nine people lost their lives. Scores more were injured.

Sporadic explosions continued for several minutes more, as a few remaining rockets and shells ignited and exploded

Caldon Incorporated had one hundred seventeen employees, all of whom became jobless in one minute and fifty seconds. Early estimates of the number of workers employed at the other buildings in the blast radius ranged from two to four thousand.

Garfield Lynns, also known as Firefly, lowered his binoculars in awe once it was clear that the last of the firecrackers had detonated. "Pretty…" he breathed.

* * *

It was three days more before Bruce ventured to inquire as to Haney's whereabouts. The hulking security guard had been a lumbering presence in his life for months, and although Bruce couldn't truthfully say that he missed the man, he wondered at his absence.

An uneasy silence prevailed as the four guards exchanged glances. Finally one mumbled something about Haney having been reassigned. They seemed relieved when Bruce didn't press the matter.

That night though, long after Dick had gone and the lights were out, Bruce awoke with a start. Something Jim had said previously…

Jim had said a lot that day, Bruce acknowledged. He still wasn't completely sure he liked having being backed into a corner and having certain salient points thrust into his face, but the more he thought about it… the more he thought about it…

What is it going to take before you stop moping and start thinking?

He heard the words again, so plainly he had to turn to the window to make sure that he didn't see Jim sitting there. Jim was right. He hadn't been thinking. He'd spent the last year enduring… accepting… willingly playing the martyr… because if he'd thought, if he'd allowed himself to think, to dwell on his current condition… it would have been too much to bear. So he'd gone through the motions, taken what he was given… and he hadn't thought.

If nothing else, Jeremiah's threat had put a stop to that state of mind. That ultimatum had forced him to think again… to care again… to plan again. And now he could no longer deny himself this freedom.

A memory surfaced. How long ago had it been? Three months ago? Four doctors ago? Doctor… McKeever, in a fit of frustration, had jerked his head up and backhanded him, hard, across the face. And the next day, Bruce had been reassigned to Dr. DeCarlo's roster. This time, Haney had nearly struck him. And now Haney was working in another part of the asylum.

Brutality at Arkham was nothing new, Bruce had to admit. He'd discovered that much, several years ago when he and Gordon had concocted a plan to plant him Arkham in order to determine how Mr. Zsasz seemed able to escape his cell and roam Gotham at will.

And more recently… Bruce remembered what had happened when Harvey Dent had used the telephone without permission.

From the way the 'good' half of his face had looked when the guards were done, they'd evidently used nightsticks to drive their point home. No inquest was ever called. Dent's medical report conveniently vanished. Not one staff member had raised an outcry. No, physical abuse at Arkham was very much the norm.

…Except in his case. Bruce sat bolt upright in bed. If the Arkham administration didn't care when the guards got a bit rough, and yet every time somebody tried to attack him they found themselves reassigned, then that meant… _someone else cared. Someone was watching._ And Bruce thought he had a good idea who that someone might be…

Slowly, he lay back down. He slowed his breathing, pretending to be asleep. He had to fool the cameras…

* * *

"Dick!" Barbara's voice rushed through the cave speakers loud enough to make the cowled figure start.

"What is it, Babs?" He asked, recovering quickly.

A moment later, her face appeared on his monitor. "You have to see this," she said. "Hot off the asylum feed."

Dick passed a hand slowly across his forehead. "Oh, no." He groaned. "Don't tell me someone else tried something? I thought Arkham could at least control his own people a little better."

"No!" Barbara was laughing. "I'm sending the relevant portion over to you now. Watch it!"

The computer pinged softly. "Got it. Opening the file."

"The lighting's not the greatest," she admitted. "I've done what I can with it, but you might have to watch a few times."

Dick nodded absently. Bruce was in bed, eyes closed. And he didn't seem to be having an easy night of it. The younger man shook his head as he watched his mentor tossing and turning on the narrow trundle cot. Suddenly, Bruce gasped, and his eyes flew open. They locked on the camera. And then, Dick saw him smile. He only spoke four words, but as he heard them, an answering grin plastered itself across Dick's own face. A moment later, Bruce repeated his question.

"Oracle… are you watching?"


	7. Chapter 7: Cutting Losses

_You always had the gift of speed;  
You'd disappear without a trace.  
It all depended on the need,  
And on the pain you could not face.  
So you would leave the home you'd found,  
Pack it up without delay.  
Cut your losses, blow that town…_

_Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Shelter of Storms."_

A/N: Thanks to Char, Debbie, and Kalin for the beta! Special consultant, Joan Lackman.

A/N: "Shelter of Storms" written and recorded by Mary Chapin Carpenter. From Between Here and Gone, copyright 2004 by Sony.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Cutting Losses**

_Three days ago_

"…And a pall hangs over East Burnley, this morning," the reporter continued, "as the conflagration that destroyed the Caldon Fireworks Factory at approximately nine p.m. last night continues to blaze. The cause of the fire remains unknown, and emergency crews are still unable to enter the scene of the disaster. A 600-foot exclusion zone is in place due to concerns that up to 20 gas cylinders reportedly on-site could explode without warning.

"For further coverage, we join our own Ron Llewellyn, at the scene."

The view on the television shifted from the news studio to an outdoor location. The camera focussed on a middle-aged man who gave the impression of boundless energy. "Thank-you, Marla. Now, as you can see, bomb disposal units have already been dispatched. They're using a remote-controlled vehicle to assess the state of the cylinders, which will have to cool for at least 24 hours before emergency crews will be able enter the site.

"Meanwhile, all residential units in the nearby Bryantown area have been evacuated until further notice. With me now is Councilman Winston Fricke. Councilman, do you have any comme—?"

Garfield Lynns switched off the television set with a sigh. It was a shame, really. He hadn't planned on anyone getting hurt. He'd only wanted to create his masterpiece: an amalgam of flame and color, punctuated by staccato bursts of sound and light, wreathed in ephemeral white. The result had nearly taken his breath away. He was sorry that the human cost had been high, but surely those affected had realized that great art demanded great sacrifice? They must have been thrilled that their ugly, impoverished, neighborhoods had, for once, been a source of such wondrous beauty. Surely, they understood. If he could show them what he had done—how awesome the final effect had been, wouldn't they forgive him readily for the unfortunate side effects of his artistic medium? If they only took it upon themselves to explain to the police…

He shook his head, sobering. The police wouldn't listen. The way the media was slanting its coverage of the event, it wouldn't matter if an enlightened few supported him. Those who hadn't witnessed the splendor that he had unveiled last night would never… could never… appreciate what he had wrought. No, he'd have to hide out for a little while. He needed to wait until he was certain that their investigation was at an end. As hard as it was, he would need to refrain from displaying his creations publicly for awhile.

Suppose he could somehow create something magnificent enough to amaze even the most vehement of his detractors? If he could do that… Lynns smiled to himself. If he could achieve such acclaim, it would all be worthwhile. The only question was… how?

* * *

_Now_

Dick arrived at Dr. Morgenstern's downtown office a full ten minutes before his eight o'clock appointment. In addition to being a staff psychiatrist at Arkham, the doctor maintained an office mere minutes from Patrick Morgan.

Dick grimaced to himself. A year ago, in an effort to distance itself from Bruce Wayne's legal situation, the board of directors of WE had officially endorsed a motion to change the company name to Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. It was close enough to the original that Dick had entertained the hope that the company could quietly go back to calling itself WE after awhile. Instead, more and more people had come to refer to the corporation as 'Patrick Morgan'. Dick told himself that it was temporary—once Bruce got out, everything was going to change. But temporary or not, it still hurt.

He parked in the adjacent lot and bounded up the stairs to the front door.

Alex was standing in the lobby as the elevator doors opened. He greeted Dick cheerfully and gestured to the younger man to precede him. "I'm glad you asked for this meeting," he remarked. "I was going to contact you later in the week."

"Oh?"

The doors slid open on the ninth floor. Alex said nothing further until they were both in his office. Then he turned to Dick, his expression serious. "Let's cut to the chase," he stated. "How much do you already know?"

Dick thought for a moment. "I know there've been some major changes in him in the last couple of weeks."

Alex stroked his beard. "Accurate if somewhat general," he said. "I notice that you're not rushing to call it an improvement." He smiled. "Don't worry. It is."

The younger man grinned back. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions."

"Very sensible." The smile fell away. "But it leads me to ask something of you that will be difficult. To be honest, if I were in your position with the capabilities that I would presume you have," Alex said gravely, "I don't know if I could agree to it. But I'm still going to ask."

Embarrassed, he broke off with a chuckle. "I'm sorry; I should have invited you to sit down!" He waved Dick to a padded armchair before the desk. "Coffee?"

Dick took a seat. "No, I'm fine. Thanks. What?"

Alex sighed. "Correct me if I'm wrong. I think the records were factual on this much at least. The circumstance that led to Mr. Wayne's commitment to Arkham was an emotional breakdown triggered by," he counted off on his fingers. "His inability to save a loved one, his subsequent arrest, and the unauthorized administration of a stimulant, which caused him to experience nightmares and violent episodes, culminating in a physical assault on a close friend. Is that accurate?"

Dick nodded, not feeling the need to mention that Jason Todd had also died that night. It had been _two_ loved ones.

"Good," Alex said. "I've learned that records can err. Nice to know that this time, they didn't. Alright. My personal and professional opinion is that at that point, Mr. Wayne came to the conclusion that he _deserved_ to be locked away. He hasn't willingly participated in any treatment plan until now because he genuinely believes that he should _not_ be walking about freely."

"You said 'believes'," Dick pointed out.

Alex nodded. "As of this moment, I still consider that to be so. Obviously, my first priority is changing that mindset." He smiled self-consciously. "Not that _my_ efforts are likely to bear fruit."

Dick blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Ever read the T-shirt slogans in the malls?" Alex asked. "There's one that I love. It reads 'Why pay a psychiatrist to tell you what your problems are, when your friends and family will do it for free?'" He nodded at Dick's amusement. "There are a few things wrong with that truism. But I do feel, very strongly, that any progress he makes _will_ be due in large part to the support he receives from friends and family. Or to put it a different way, I can lead him to the water. I'm relying on the rest of you to convince him he's thirsty."

The two men shared a smile.

"How _is_ he doing?" Dick asked seriously. "I mean, I can see the changes, but does that mean he'll be released soon?"

"'Soon' is relative," Alex said. "Forgive me. Word travels. I'm cognizant that you have your own methods of knowing some of what goes on at Arkham. Are you aware of why Mr. Wayne recently chose to alter his behavior?"

Dick nodded grimly.

"And yet you didn't interfere."

"I'm not a psychiatrist," Dick said. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and opened them again. "When Bruce was remanded to Arkham, I promised myself I wouldn't raise any protests regarding his treatment program, no matter how I felt about it. But abuse is a different story."

"I concur," Alex smiled. "And you have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that bit about not interfering."

"Oh?" Dick was suddenly nervous.

"Don't worry," Alex said reassuringly. "I'm not planning on prescribing anything as draconian as… as electroshock therapy. But here's the thing. One of my mentors, Dr. Abraham Twerski, writes frequently about the hermit crab. The crab, you see, grows a protective shell, which shields it from danger. However, as the crab grows, the shell becomes increasingly confining, and uncomfortable. So, after a time, the crab sheds the shell, even though, in so doing, it renders itself completely vulnerable. It must take on faith that it will acquire another, roomier shell."

He looked intently at Dick. "Human beings, unfortunately, have brains that are more highly developed. What the hermit crab does instinctively, we tend to think through. And very often, we conclude that it's better to put up with the discomfort, than to risk being completely… exposed. That's one of the things I'm working on with Mr. Wayne," he added. "I'm attempting to convince him that it's time to change his shell. Which means, I need to get him to focus on, well, his discomfort."

"I understand," Dick said.

"Do you?" Alex asked. "Because here's where the difficult part arises. Once Mr. Wayne realizes how confining his current situation is, once he accepts that the status quo is not the optimum situation, my guess is that his first thought will be to attempt to leave. Perhaps a year ago, he might have been able to manage that on his own. Now…" He shook his head. "Maybe. But I sincerely doubt it. Much more likely, he'll ask you to help him escape. If that should happen, I'm asking you not to."

Dick felt as though a cold wind was ripping through him. "If he asks me, I…" His voice trailed off.

"I'd expect him to make that request in a last-ditch attempt to avoid really tackling the issues. Change is a scary prospect. Expecting him to change the behavior of a lifetime? It would have to be downright terrifying for him. But if we let him walk away at that stage, we risk undoing all the progress we're making to date."

Dick understood. But if Bruce asked him… _It would be as though he were begging me. Could I really turn my back on him if he was that desperate?_

Alex noticed his hesitation. "If you did get him out of Arkham, what then?"

_I'd hide him_, Dick thought to himself. Then he paused, to actually consider that scenario. How long could he do that? He'd have to keep Bruce hidden away for a very long time. Babs might be able to help with a forged identity, but would Bruce be in any shape to assume a new role? And the minute he turned up missing at Arkham… The police would come looking for Dick. If they couldn't find Bruce with him, they'd watch him, follow him. Sure, Bruce had taught him how to lose a tail, but would Dick really be able keep that up for weeks, months, maybe years on end? He shook his head. Sooner or later, he'd let his guard down. And then, it would be back to Arkham for Bruce, while he… Dick chewed the inside of his lip. He'd probably be in Blackgate for aiding and abetting a fugitive. Or, no, wait. Maybe it was 'accessory after the fact'. Harboring a fugitive? Probably all of the above, he thought grimly. Of course, he would be willing to go to prison for Bruce's sake. But how much good could he do his surrogate father if he was locked up? _No good at all_. He sighed.

He could help Bruce leave the country. Maybe he could even go with him. But as fugitives… They'd have to cut all ties. No more pizza with Roy, or taking Lian to the circus. No more visits to Clark and Lois in Metropolis. Even phoning them would be risky. Garth… the Outsiders… Gordon… Tim… Cass… Amy… Clancy… his 'family' at Haley's… He pictured them all, and he imagined never being able to see any of them again. _Babs_. She wouldn't live in hiding. It would come down to a choice between a life with her… or a life on the run with Bruce.

He shook his head. If he had to, could he really make that choice? He didn't want to. But, if he had to, he rose abruptly and crossed over to the coffee machine. He poured himself a cup and gulped it down on his way back to the chair, burning his tongue in the process. If he had to… he couldn't believe that he was even thinking along those lines… but _if it came down to a choice… there wasn't one. Either way, he'd hate himself for having to make that decision, but if he had to… it would be Babs. Hands-down. _"You're really not giving me the easy stuff," he joked feebly.

Alex shook his head in silent empathy. "No."

* * *

Cassandra Cain undid the drawstring on the velvet bag, turned it upside down and shook it. Twenty-six 3-inch letters skittered out onto the table. She picked one up and examined it. The metal gleamed red-gold in the palm of her hand. She moved her fingers carefully over the smooth curved surface. "Copper," she said aloud. "k… k…" She knew this one. She shut her eyes tightly. Again she traced the shape. The copper had a curve. She could feel that. She didn't have to see it… to see… she opened her eyes. "C!" She exclaimed. "Copper. C!" She had it. She had to hold on to it somehow. She knew what copper felt like. She knew what the letter sounded like. "I… _see_ that this _cee_ is copper." That could work. She repeated the sentence. Carefully, she replaced the letter in the bag, and picked up another one.

She frowned. This one was a lustrous pure black. It felt a lot like the C, only it continued on to form a perfect circle. "Onyx," she remembered. "Aw… aw…" There was no letter called 'aw'. Wait… there was a trick to this. If she pushed her lips into the same shape as the letter… "ohhhhhhhhhh." _Oh_. "O!" She picked up the C again. "C. Copper. O. Onyx. C.O." She had it. Suddenly her eyes grew wide. She lifted up the copper letter and set it down on the other side of the onyx one. "O.C," she whispered. "The TV show. That's what the name looks like. O.C."

Hardly daring to breathe, she walked over to the bookshelf and lifted down a volume at random. She opened it and felt her heart sink. So many symbols. All of them black like the onyx O. She could see o's on the page. Were there any cees? It would help if they were typed in copper ink. Instead she was drowning in a sea of black lettering. "The cees are drowning in the sea," she said aloud. "I can see it."

She slammed the book shut. Well, what had she been expecting? She'd just proven she could remember two letters. Did she really think that meant she'd be able to guess the rest of them? She caught her breath. Did she still remember those two letters? She snatched them up. "O," she breathed. "Onyx." Her lips had formed a circle, like the letter. It was the right one. "C. Copper." She breathed again. She still had it.

All at once, she remembered something else. She dove under her bed and hauled out the suitcase she'd taken with her to Ivytown. Newly sweaty hands fumbled for the label that Barbara had fastened to the handle of the bag before they'd left for the airport.

It was there. The curved piece of reddish metal was warm in her hand. She squeezed it tightly. "C," she whispered. "_Cass_."

* * *

"I thought you might enjoy this one," Alex slid the hard-cover blue volume across his desk. "I mean if you ignore some of the 'cheerier' works," he said with a wry smile.

Bruce's curiosity got the better of him and he reached for the heavy tome. It was a high school literature text. "Cheerier," he repeated, leafing through the contents.

"There's a short story in there about a man who freezes to death, Noyes' 'Highwayman', I forget which Edgar Allen Poe story is in that one, but—"

Bruce scanned the page. "'The Cask of Amontillado'," he said.

Alex shuddered. "I think I recall the plot of that one. I should have checked first."

"Why?" Bruce asked. "Are you concerned that I'll read too much into my own situation?"

"It crossed my mind."

Bruce wasn't sure what infuriated him more: Alex's assumption that he somehow needed to be shielded from a short story about a man whose enemy entombed him alive, or his bland admission of it. "I'm not _that_ fragile," he snapped.

"Fine." He paused. "You've read it, then."

Bruce nodded.

"What did you think of it?"

Bruce thought for a moment. "His look into the mind of a killer was illuminating. And the planning that went into the scheme was…" His voice trailed off. He fixed Alex with a hard stare. "Very clever."

Alex's puzzled look gave way to dawning understanding. "I'm not trying to trick you into revealing anything, Mr. Wayne. I thought we established that at our first session." He sighed. "I had the book at home and it occurred to me that you might like to read something a little more thought-provoking. That's all."

Bruce looked skeptical.

"Take it," Alex said. "I promise I won't test you on it."

He glanced up sharply.

Alex nodded. "Dr. Arkham approved the request. You can borrow a book or two to read later."

Bruce acknowledged the information with a slight nod in return. Then he set the text down on the couch, walked over to the bookcase, and picked up _Over Sea, Under Stone_.

Alex resumed his crossword puzzle.

Bruce tried to read, but he found his mind wandering. What _was_ Alex's angle? What did the man want? And why should what Alex wanted matter to him in the slightest? That was a real puzzle.

When the hour was up, Bruce carried both books back to his cell.

* * *

"Hey, Bruce."

Dick sat down in front of the window.

Bruce gave a guilty start and set the paperback down. Was it that late already?

Dick grinned. "Good book?"

"Escape literature," Bruce said. It wasn't until Dick looked up sharply that he realized how that phrase might be interpreted. He shook his head. "It… takes me back," he said, holding up the volume so that the title was visible. "Remember?"

"Hey, yeah!" Dick's eyes lit up. "You used to read that to me when I was a kid."

Bruce had honestly forgotten that part. He nodded. "That was a long time ago."

"Great," Dick said with mock-anger. "Babs makes me feel like I'm still in short-pants; you're talking like I'm going gray." He threw up his hands. "I can't win!"

"You're being melodramatic," Bruce said dryly. "It's tedious." It was the same tone that he had used when Dick was in his teens, and beginning to chafe at the restrictions that life as Batman's partner entailed.

"Spoilsport," Dick teased. His expression grew a shade more serious. "Before I forget, Babs asked me to pass on a message." He pressed his fingertips against the window mesh. "She said she's sorry you don't get to see her that much, but she wanted you to know that just because she can't visit as often as she'd like, doesn't mean she's not keeping an eye on things for you."

It was a confirmation. Bruce nodded. "That's… understandable," he said. _Message received._

"Anyway," Dick continued, "I've got some other news. She and I… well… we've decided to look for an apartment together…"

* * *

Montoya was as good as her word. Two days later, she slid an armload of file folders across the shelf to him. It almost didn't matter that the only writing implements allowed to him were sixteen crayons in assorted colors. At least, he thought sardonically, they were sharp. If he was going to write notes, that much was essential. He discarded the yellow one. It didn't contrast enough with the off-white pages of the blank scrapbook that the police detective had included. At Bruce's questioning glance, she'd mumbled something about margin notes in colored wax being difficult to read. She had a point.

Bruce sighed. He reached for the uppermost folder. Susan Cooper's fiction was a nice bit of nostalgia for him, but if there was any way that he could accomplish some good from this cell, that had to take priority. He read the top sheet. This one looked familiar. A memory surfaced: missing persons case. A two-year-old girl, presumed abducted. The mother was a seventeen-year-old emancipated minor. The maternal grandparents had unsuccessfully attempted to obtain custody. At the time that the little girl had gone missing, the grandparents had an alibi. A few weeks later, they'd left Gotham and not been seen since.

His eyebrows knit together in a frown. He couldn't be everywhere. And the police hadn't asked for his help on that one. This was the sort of case where he needed to question the suspects. He needed travel records… He shook his head. He didn't have any of that, and the trail was five years cold. Every clue he could get was in the folder in front of him. Either there was something useable in that sheaf of papers, or there wasn't, and he could go on to the next one. He turned the sheet over and picked up the investigating officer's report on her interview with the grandparents.

"Um… Hi."

Bruce looked up, startled. "Robin." He put the folder down. "Sit down," he added with a smile. He hadn't seen the young man in months. "You… you look well."

He'd come in costume. That meant that certain topics could be brought up without compromising the young man's identity. Bruce himself was now, of course, beyond such concerns.

"Thanks." Robin remained standing.

Bruce sized up his former partner. The boy was nervous, for all he was trying to hide it. "I'm glad you came." He was out of practice. The 'old' Bruce… the affable socialite Bruce, would know how to put people at ease. He wasn't used to making that effort anymore. Still, he supposed he should try. He owed Tim that much. "I missed you."

Tim reddened. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I should have come more. Just… school and all. You know."

He did know. Although, the thought surfaced, Dick had managed to find the time. Jim came by regularly. Even Barbara had been a more frequent visitor these last few months. _Just recently, you were wishing they'd all stay away._ "You finished your finals?"

"Yeah," Tim said, relief palpable. Grades were a safe subject. "I got all A's."

Bruce smiled again, a real smile. "That's… that's good. I know you were worried about missing those months."

"It wasn't a problem." Tim drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I got into SFSU. I'm moving to 'Frisco next week." It came out in a rush. "I'll stay in touch, though. Honest."

"Oh." Bruce clenched his jaw. He hadn't expected that. _You wanted them to forget you and go on with their lives. He's doing that._ "Congratulations."

"Thanks. I… I just thought I should let you know."

Of course. Because if he secured Bruce's blessing on the subject, that made it easier for him to leave, didn't it? Bruce forced himself to nod stiffly. "Thank-you."

Tim seemed to notice the stool by the window for the first time. He sat down. "So… how are things?"

Bruce mentally rehashed the last few weeks. Jeremiah threatening him, Alex, Haney… Deliberately he went back to the missing persons file. "You're in the clear."

"What?"

He looked up again. "Nightwing put you up to coming here, didn't he?" Tim's stricken expression confirmed his suspicion. "You came, Robin. You're off the hook. I'll tell him that if you like. You… you have fun in San Francisco. I'm sure you'll do fine."

After five minutes, he realized that he hadn't heard the stool scrape back. "Are you still here?"

There was no response. Bruce looked up to see the youth staring at him, jaw clenched. The mask kept his eyes unreadable. "Was there anything else?"

Tim nodded. "One question." He drew a deep breath. "I didn't have the nerve to ask you before, and sorry if my timing stinks… but I want to know… I have to know before I leave. What happened with Stephanie? Why did you make her Robin? You of all people had to know she wasn't qualified for it. You did know… you fired her at least once before that."

Bruce sighed. "I couldn't talk her out of the costume. I thought with the proper training, she might stand a chance. Without it, she'd be dead within the year. It was a miracle she'd survived as long as she had. But I worried. One day, she was going to mistake luck for skill, and she'd challenge Joker or Ivy single-handed."

"Or Black Mask?" Tim asked. He frowned. "That still doesn't explain why you made her Robin."

Bruce looked away. "You quit."

"Excuse me?"

"You quit and she… showed up in a Robin costume." He shook his head. "I know. I made a mistake. One of several. I told her that if she disobeyed me, she was out of the costume. Permanently. She agreed."

"Sure she agreed," Tim said. "She wanted the training. She would've walked through fire if you'd told her to."

"She also would have walked through fire if I ordered her to walk away from it."

Tim's jaw set stubbornly. "You know, Bruce… after Cain got you cleared of those murder charges, and you put Steph through that so-called 'test' to prove to her that she wasn't vigilante material… she came to me. And she asked me how I proved to you that _I_ was good enough to be your partner. And I told her."

Bruce went cold. "You told her. You told her… what, precisely?"

"That I saved your life. And what you told me: sometimes—not very often—and only when it's justified—"

"—A hero gets to break the rules," Bruce finished in a whisper.

"Exactly. So when you tell me that she would have walked through fire against your orders, I have to ask: were you by any chance caught in the middle of that blaze?"

Silence.

Tim shook his head in disgust. "You fired her for saving your life."

"I fired her for forcing me to allow an assassin to escape."

"_I_ saved your life and you gave me the suit. _She_—" He broke off. "She wanted the costume. More than I did at that time. But that's not the point. If she wasn't qualified, you never should have let her go out in it."

"Don't you think…"

"No. Didn't _you_ think? You can't just give away the suit and take it back. Any doubts you might have had? You should have figured them out before you told her the costume was hers."

"Where is that carved in stone?"

Tim bit back a shout. "Forget it. You make the rules. You always did. And if Steph disobeyed them it's her fault she died, isn't it?"

"I never said that," Bruce snapped.

"No," Tim agreed. "You were too busy running to Africa to yell at Leslie. The hell with this. I'm out of here."

"Ti-Robin…"

The youth shook his head. "Bruce… I don't want to hear it. Maybe later. Maybe never. But not now. I know Black Mask pulled the trigger. I know Leslie withheld the medication that should have saved her. But she never would have been _near_ Black Mask if she hadn't thought she could win her way back into your good books."

He hesitated, caught between righteous anger and a need to hear an explanation—any explanation that would paint his mentor in a better light.

Bruce lowered his eyes. There wasn't one.

There were things he could say in his defense, of course. He could reveal that Stephanie had launched the 'War Games' protocol that had plunged the city into chaos… and Tim could respond that Bruce shouldn't have allowed her access to that file in the first place. Besides, why was he trying to make excuses? He _was_ at least partly responsible for her death. He'd trained her, and then he'd fired her for making a judgement call. And she had left thinking that she had acquired the combat skills needed to survive in a costume. Had she captured Scarab, Bruce had to admit that it probably would have cemented her as the new Robin. He'd never even thanked her for trying to save his life. No. For saving his life. Scarab had him blind as his proverbial namesake, wounded and on the ropes. There was no guarantee that he would have been able to escape without Stephanie's assistance. And he had fired her. He'd taught her just enough to make her more confident, but that little learning had proven to be a dangerous thing. Bruce slowly shook his head.

Robin watched him coldly. Bruce could almost feel the boy's glare burning into him. _I taught him that. _

The young man waited a moment longer for Bruce to respond before he finally turned his back. "Take care of yourself, Bruce. I'll… write."

As he walked away, though, they both knew that he wouldn't.

* * *

Four days later, Brett Carter was sitting in a bar situated about as far from the Iceberg Lounge as it could be without falling into the Finger River. He was in the process of downing his second beer in twenty minutes.

He poured a third draft from the pitcher and slapped a five and two singles down on the table. "Get another one ready," he snapped. "I'll need it!"

"And then you'll need cab-fare home," someone sniffed behind him. "You sure you have it?"

Carter spun on the barstool. "You, mind your own business!" He snapped.

The balding man in the loud Hawaiian print shirt sat down. "Oh, I am, Mr. Carter. I am. I believe you… ahem… ran afoul of one of my colleagues a few days ago?" He smirked. "Ribs still a mite tender?"

"Who are you?"

A hand flew to his mirrored sunglasses. "You may call me 'Noah'. You prefer Heineken, don't you, Mr. Carter?" Without waiting for a response he waved to the bartender.

"Two Heinekens."

"Comin' right up," the bartender acknowledged.

Noah smiled. "I'm afraid Cobblepot overreacted a bit," he said. "You have to understand, the man has a certain reputation to uphold. If every newcomer with valuable information were to attempt to haggle with him the way you did… well, his standing among his peers would diminish. I'm sure you can see that."

Carter took a sip from the new drink, enjoying the mild bitterness of the lager. "Do you know what he did to me?" He demanded.

Noah nodded. "Oh yes. He reminded you, in no uncertain terms, that although you might have been holding an ace in your hand, he had a royal flush. Bad business, that." He sighed. "And you a family man."

Carter took another sip. "It's our anniversary in a week," he admitted. "I still haven't told Joanna it's all gone. I… she's just the best thing that ever happened to a man like me, and if she leaves me over this, I'll… I'll…"

Noah shook his head. "It's a real pity. I can't help but feel somewhat responsible, actually. Seeing as I was the one who asked Oswald to put out feelers for that information."

He pulled out a wallet. Carter's eyes widened as he saw the thick wad of cash. Noah followed his gaze.

"It's mostly singles," he said with a sigh, pulling the bills loose and rifling them to demonstrate. "Oh, wait. Here's a hundred," he peeled it off and handed it to the former special agent. "For your troubles. Cobblepot won't do anything further to you. I told him our arrangement was off."

Carter blinked. "You… wha—?"

"Well… yes. I can't deal with a man whose methods are that extreme. Which, means that you're quite safe."

"So," Carter said, "wait. YOU wanted my information?"

"Yes. But I couldn't offer the compensation that Cobblepot had access to. The arrangement was simple: he would set out the remuneration, and I would repay him with my services. On my own… I'm sorry, Mr. Carter, but my means are far more modest."

Carter thought furiously. "_How_ modest?"

Noah drummed his fingers on the table. "By my calculations, I can offer you twenty-five thousand dollars up-front. And, if your information pans out, I can offer you an additional five hundred dollars per week to become a set of eyes and ears for me. At the end of one year, we would re-evaluate our arrangement. If it's proven mutually profitable, I would likely be able to increase your compensation. If not, we part as friends and go our separate ways." He fixed Carter with a penetrating stare. "I'll agree it's not the most generous offer, but at the moment, it's the best I can do. Do we have a bargain?"

Carter hesitated.

Noah placed a small velvet box on the bar. "Your wife's birthday falls in late October, does it not?" He asked, as the former special agent opened it.

Carter closed the box hastily and slid it into his pocket. "How did you know?" The sapphire earrings were exquisite.

"Mr. Carter," Noah smiled, "knowledge is my business." He extended his hand.

Carter took it. "We've got a deal."

"Excellent," Noah replied. "I'll contact you tomorrow about a more… private place where we can discuss your information."

* * *

Alex started to greet Bruce as usual, and then broke off. "Is anything… the matter?" He asked.

The rage that Bruce had done his best to control until the guards left the room surfaced. He all but slammed the open literature book down on the desk. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

Alex looked at the title. "I have to admit, I'm not familiar with that one," he admitted.

Bruce shook his head in disbelief.

"I'm being completely honest with you. I haven't read every work in here." He sighed. "Now you've genuinely got me curious," he admitted. "Do you want me to read it for myself, or would you rather give me a rundown of the salient points in," he glanced down at the open book again, "Ms Berriault's short story?"

"Are you trying to tell me," Bruce drew a deep breath, "that you really had no idea what the story was about?"

Alex steepled his fingers. "None. If I ever had occasion to read 'The Stone Boy,' I didn't retain it."

The fire in his eyes receded, slightly. "If that's the case, Doctor," he said tersely, "I apologize." Without another word, he strode to the bookcase.

Alex watched him for a moment before he returned to his puzzle book. After a few minutes, he looked up.

Bruce was watching him, a bemused expression on his face. "You're not going to push me," he stated.

"I told you at our first meeting—"

"I… know what you told me," Bruce replied. "I've been curious as to how long you can pretend indifference."

"Non-interference and indifference are two different things." Alex was dispassion personified. "You haven't cooperated with any of my predecessors. Why should I entertain the illusion that I'll be any different?"

"So you've decided not to try."

"How much psychology have you studied?"

"Excuse me?"

Alex repeated the question. "Informal education counts, too. There are methods… techniques that I'm trained to employ to encourage reluctant patients to open up. The problem is, in all probability, you're familiar with them, and you'll see them coming a mile away. I'm not going to insult you by attempting to trick you into working with me."

Understanding dawned. "I thought Jer… Dr. Arkham would have informed you of his own… trick to ensure that I work with you."

For the first time, Bruce thought he saw an expression of anger cross the psychiatrist's face. It vanished quickly. "I'm aware of the situation. I'm not about to coerce you, either."

Bruce couldn't quite conceal the relief that came with hearing that assertion. "I do appreciate that," he admitted. He felt some of the tension leave him. Something made him add, "it… may not be sufficient, though."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Now that he's aware that his tactic can prove effective," Bruce clarified, "he is likely to employ it again. I have been attempting to develop a contingen..." He squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment as the absurdity of the situation hit him. He'd all but asked his doctor how to thwart the asylum director's efforts to induce cooperation. As though it wasn't a conflict of interest.

Alex nodded. "I'm guessing," he said seriously, "that you've been finding it difficult."

"If you're trying to tell me that there's no countermeasure—"

"No," Alex hedged. "There's one that springs to mind. I only hesitate to bring it up because it could be construed as an attempt at manipulation on _my_ part."

Bruce looked up, curious.

"Well, if you're willing, we could work on creating a buffer, of sorts," the doctor explained. "You could… earn back some of the privileges you've had rescinded over the last year. If disciplinary action is warranted, the general policy here is to remove the most-recently awarded perks first. So, if you can accumulate a few freedoms that you don't particularly mind losing…" Alex broke off. "Well, it was a thought, anyway."

Bruce considered. It actually wasn't a bad idea. Even if Alex probably was hoping that he'd enjoy the additional privileges enough that he'd soon be fighting to keep those too. _That_, at least, was not going to happen. However… "I… progress charts are juvenile," he said.

"They are, aren't they?" Alex smiled. "Well, I do have to have something quantifiable, something that I can show to Arkham if he asks me to justify any changes to your status." He thought for a moment. "How about this: tomorrow, I'll come in with a timer. You're here for sixty minutes. For six of those—one tenth of the time—I'll put away the crosswords, and we'll talk. No pressure. No loaded questions, at least none on my part. Just talking. Any subject at all. Every segment of six consecutive minutes counts as one point. If you want to earn more points in a session, that's fine, too. 100 points equals one privilege. I'll bring in a list tomorrow so that you can pick a goal to work toward."

He extended his arm across the desk toward Bruce. "No charts. I'll make a note of each segment and let you know your standing any time you ask. If you don't ask, I won't tell you until you've actually hit a target. And if you change your mind at any time, no problem. You get a change of scenery, and I get an hour where I can be reasonably sure I won't get doused with Smilex, discover a mind-control chip in my hat, or find out that my geranium has been crossed with a Venus flytrap and is currently doing an extremely convincing Audrey II impression."

Bruce turned the matter over in his mind. Obviously, there was some risk involved. He'd have to be on his guard at all times. But it was a fair offer. Six hundred minutes equaled ten hours equaled a minimum of two weeks equaled one privilege. It was reasonable. It was attainable. He allowed himself a guarded smile as he shook Alex's outstretched hand.

* * *

Garfield Lynns surveyed the dingy room about him and abruptly closed his eyes. The cheap motel room was badly in need of a paint job… or of being demolished for kindling. He knew exactly how much lighter fluid he would need in order for the wood to catch fire. But the flames would be drab when compared to the Caldon inferno. That one… that one had been glorious. He honestly did not know how he would surpass it. He would be fortunate to recreate such splendor.

He thought about it. He could never match the concentrated effect… but perhaps if he were to synchronize the fires so that, at a given time, five, ten, maybe twenty edifices scattered throughout the city were to suddenly transform into bursts of light and flame… it would be a wonder.

He sobered. The timing was wrong. He needed to wait for the furor to die down… for people to forget about the regrettable loss of life, and remember the beauty of it all. He had to lie low for now.

He smiled. He could be patient. It would take some planning, at any rate. If he couldn't procure the necessary fireworks assembled, then he would need to purchase the components separately.

He would definitely need TNT and flash powder. Kerosene or diesel fuel would be useful. Black powder… he nodded. But it wouldn't be enough to acquire the explosives. He needed to produce the colors as well. Strontium carbonate, lithium carbonate… he had no idea whether the compounds were available for general use. But he would find out. He could wait.

He just hoped it wouldn't take too long.

* * *

Bruce sat facing Alex, as he had been for the last fifteen minutes. The doctor seemed to be doing a word search today. Bruce idly wondered whether he'd gotten tired of the crosswords, or finally finished the magazine. He drew a deep breath, opened his mouth—and closed it again.

'Any subject', Alex had told him. There was no way that Bruce was going to talk about his parents, or Alfred, or Jason… he supposed he could talk about the weather. _It's cloudy today. Hmmmm… I think that will account for about five seconds. Eight, if I speak really slowly._ He took another breath. "Getting started is more difficult than I'd expected," he said.

Alex looked up. "Beginnings tend to be. I remember my first day starting here. I was settling into my office—not this one, by the way. Initially I had something a bit smaller, on the east side of the building where the van brings in the new arrivals for processing." He set down the pen. "That was… well, I've long suspected that giving new staff office space in that part of the building constitutes administrative hazing."

Bruce nodded. "And yet, you're still here."

"As we've established, beginnings are hard."

Alex paused a beat. "I did read over 'The Stone Boy' last night. I had to spend about a half-hour browsing the stacks in the library, but I found a copy. "Fascinating stuff."

"It made an impression," Bruce replied.

"Frankly, I felt sorry for the kid."

Bruce stood up. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to agree with you about how tragic it was that the boy couldn't open up, and how horrible it was everybody treated him as though the murder was intentional?"

"Was it?"

"Yes," Bruce conceded, "it was. But it wasn't his fault. He wasn't responsible."

Alex nodded slowly. "I don't think he was either. It was a stupid, tragic accident."

Bruce took a step away and strode to the window. "Family is supposed to support one another."

Silence.

Bruce spun back to him. "Well? Aren't you going to ask me what I mean by that?"

"I don't have to," Alex shot back. "I've met yours."

That checked him. Slowly he made his way back to his seat. "Family is supposed to support one another," he repeated, thinking of Tim, "but sometimes the strain is too great. When I read the story," he continued, "I knew that the boy's parents were misunderstanding the situation, but if I suspect that I would have done the same thing, does that make me a hypocrite?"

"Is this the point where I'm supposed to vehemently protest that it makes you human?"

Bruce smiled faintly. "Touché."

"To be fair," Alex added, "it might be helpful to remember that the family was in a state of severe shock at the time."

"I know." Bruce reflected for a moment. "They…" he began, "they weren't wrong. But they should have… thought. Or not come in the first place."

Alex blinked. "Sorry, what was that last?"

Right. That hadn't been in the story. Bruce hesitated. Then he took a deep breath, leaned slightly forward and slowly, haltingly, he began to speak about his last visit from Robin.


	8. Chapter 8: Looking For Some Light

_All of my life I've been a fool  
Who said I can do it on my own  
How many good friends have I already lost?  
How many dog nights have I known?  
Walking down that wrong road  
There was nothing I could find  
All those years of darkness  
Looking for some light  
_

_--Tom Eyen, "I am Changing"_

* * *

Thanks to Char, Debbie and Kalin for the beta. 

Special Consultant: Joan Lackman

"I am Changing" lyrics by Tom Eyen. From _Dreamgirls_, Copyright 1982 by Decca.

_Batman: Journey into Night, _and_ Birds of Prey: Sensei and Student_ are referenced in this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Looking For Some Light**

Afterward, Bruce marveled at how easy it had been. Alex hadn't pushed, hadn't probed, hadn't asked Bruce how he "felt" about Tim's tirade. He'd just sat back and listened. And he'd shared a few stories about his own children putting him on the spot, as it were.

Bruce had to admit that the hour he'd spent upstairs hadn't seemed much like the therapy sessions he'd endured sporadically over the years. Grief counseling hadn't been commonly prescribed when he'd been a child. If it hadn't been for Alfred… He frowned. Looking back… had he ever really spoken with Alfred about that night? Certainly, he'd talked about wanting to make his parents proud, about marking the day, about missing them. But had he ever truly opened up? Bruce chewed the inside of his lower lip, remembering. Alfred had been there for him, but Bruce now suspected that the older man hadn't quite known how to help a young boy cope with his pain. The support, the compassion, the willingness to listen had all been present. But Bruce hadn't known how to talk. And Alfred… hadn't known how to draw him out.

He frowned. Children, even precocious children, did not think like adults. Ascribing 'grownup' thoughts to his eight-year-old self was, perhaps, a flawed exercise. But he wondered: had he forced himself to act as though he'd 'gotten past' his loss because he hadn't wanted to upset Alfred? Or… a memory surfaced: one he hadn't thought of in decades.

_It had been several weeks since the first anniversary of the funeral. Summer was over and school was starting tomorrow. Bruce couldn't sleep. Last year, Alfred had homeschooled him. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd walk back onto the school grounds, and they'd all stare at him. They'd stared at Tommy when he came back after his father's funeral. All of them, Bruce included, had stared, and whispered, and backed away… as though orphanhood was somehow contagious. Maybe it was. Bruce tossed and turned in the big four-poster. Tomorrow, he stood to face the same treatment._

_He wished that he could stay home this year also. But he'd heard Alfred and Dr. Leslie talking, saying that it might be good for him to go back. How important it was that he spend time with children his own age. Bruce closed his eyes again. They might all have been born in the same year, but the other kids seemed so much younger in his memories. Tommy might have understood. But, Tommy and his mother had left Gotham in the middle of third grade, shortly after Mr. Elliot's funeral. Bruce would have to face the others alone._

_He got up and reached for his bathrobe. Maybe, if Alfred were still up, Bruce could ask him for some hot chocolate. It might make him feel better. He stepped into his slippers and padded softly down to the kitchen._

_He could hear Alfred on the phone as he got closer. All at once, he overheard his name mentioned. He paused, listening now. Whoever was on the other end seemed to be doing most of the talking. Bruce debated with himself for a moment, before he crept silently into the study and picked up the other extension…_

"_Surely," Bruce recognized Dr. Leslie's voice, "they wouldn't take him away from you?"_

"_One would hope not," Alfred replied. "However, the possibility cannot be overlooked. Since that night, he's been withdrawn, silent, brooding…"_

"_He's grieving, Alfred. There's no timetable for it. He'll come 'round."_

_Alfred's voice dropped an octave. "I received another call from Mr. Harrison of the Wayne Enterprises board of trustees. Once more, he has expressed his concern that perhaps, Bruce would be happier in a more… stable environment."_

_Bruce nearly dropped the receiver as Dr. Leslie snorted. "Stable? You mean foster care?"_

"_Harrison remains quite convinced that the lad will recover more fully if he were be placed in a two-parent household."_

_Bruce's mouth went dry. Somebody wanted Alfred to send him away?_

"_**That**__ is utter nonsense!" Dr. Leslie's words practically exploded in his ear. "At this point, the last thing he needs is a new living arrangement and strangers looking after him. Have you checked with a lawyer, yet? Thomas and Martha willed custody of Bruce to you—that will hold up, surely."_

"_I do hope you're right," Alfred's voice was weary. "But Emil Harrison is threatening to bring media pressure to bear. If a hearing were forced as a result of his prying, would a judge ascribe Master Bruce's emotional state to grief… or to dissatisfaction with his current living arrangement? The law favors a two-parent solution. Can you state with certainty that this bias will not factor in?" The older man's voice lowered. "And if Mr. Harrison's reasoning is sound, perhaps his proposal __**is**__ in Bruce's best interest. Am I opposed to it because I believe that the man is in error? Or is it because __**I**__ do not wish the boy to go? If it's the latter, then I'm truly unfit for my position. And perhaps I should withdraw before my actions cause Bruce any further harm."_

"_You aren't seriously—"_

_Bruce carefully replaced the receiver and crept back upstairs, heart pounding. He couldn't let them send him away. He wouldn't let them. If he had to act like everything was okay in order to stay with Alfred at the manor, then that was what he was going to do. _

_He thought back to the events of that night. Before they'd left for the movies, Bruce remembered he'd been whining about something; he couldn't recall what it had been now. It had seemed important at the time. Alfred had drawn him aside firmly._

"_Sir. Young gentlemen do not carry on so. You are quite old enough to control yourself." _

"_But…"_

"_Master Bruce. You are no longer a toddler. Do cease behaving like one."_

_Bruce nodded to himself. It was time to stop 'carrying on' and acting like a baby. He could control himself. He __**would**__. He was old enough._

_The next day, Bruce went to school. He was a bit quieter than usual… but then he'd never been one of the boisterous ones. He remembered to smile, to raise his hand at least once per subject, even if his answer was wrong. He forced himself to be cheerful and outgoing, ignoring any stares or whispers. Those faded after the first few days, in any case, once they saw that Bruce was 'back to his old self'._

There was no more talk of sending Bruce away. The nightmares persisted, but he did his best to hide them from Alfred. They'd only worry him. And, for the most part, Bruce stopped talking about his parents as well. He didn't want anybody to think that he was unhappy at the manor. Besides, it was childish to cry over what couldn't be changed.

No, he hadn't dared to confide in Alfred. The Englishman had made it clear that it was his duty to do what was best for Bruce. And should Alfred believe that his charge was unhappy…

In high school, there had been times when he'd thought about sharing the past with some of his friends. They, however, hadn't wanted to hear about it. A tragedy for them was a picnic called on account of rain, or a Mercedes in the shop. After a few halfhearted attempts, he gave up. Bruce shook his head. He'd had so little in common with his so-called peers that he could truthfully say he'd harbored no regrets about disappearing from his dormitory one night, never to return. On that night, he'd taken his first step toward fulfilling an oath he'd taken, all those years ago. He hadn't spared a thought for those he left behind. He ignored the past. Away from school, away from Gotham, he'd hurled himself into his new life, his training regimen and the future he envisioned for himself.

He'd attempted therapy one more time, shortly after taking over the reins of Wayne Enterprises. Perhaps, had his doctor not had an agenda of her own, things might have been different. His night activities had begun to take over by then, and Bruce soon began to shy away from situations which might cause him to relax his guard. He'd spent every waking hour either in costume, in the cave, or counting down the minutes until he could don the suit again. And if the nightmares of his past claimed his sleeping hours, well that sort of thing had been happening for a long time, and it was a small price to pay.

The window screening slid away, interrupting his thoughts, and an attendant pushed Bruce's supper tray through. He reached for it automatically. He raised his eyebrows. Someone had actually seen to it that the grilled vegetable wrap was warm this time, he realized. Bruce took a bite and chewed absently, thinking.

His earlier bouts with therapy could perhaps best be compared to interrogations. Why did he think he'd come today? What did he think to gain? Did he feel his parents had been overly strict with him? Granted, those sessions had been civil interrogations, but they'd immediately put Bruce on the defensive. Today… today, he'd had a _conversation_ with Alex. There had been a real give and take on both sides. It had been refreshing. In fact, Bruce realized as he plunged a carrot stick into the small container of dip, bit off a piece and chewed, he was actually looking forward to tomorrow.

* * *

There were ten names. Noah Kuttler looked the list over with a measure of satisfaction. The ten names belonged to ten women, ranging in age from 25 to 40. All had backgrounds in computers, or library science. Four of the women had both. Five were researchers; three were in the military, or had been at some time in the past. One name was starred and circled. 

"I see you, Barbara," Kuttler all but purred. "I see you."

He smiled to himself. Of course, he had to be absolutely sure that Carter's story checked out. He thought it would, but he had to be certain. And once it did…

There were so many ways that he could use this particular bit of intel. He just had to choose.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Selina demanded. She'd opened her door to find Dick Grayson standing there with a hopeful expression on his face. 

"I was wondering if I could have a few words with you during the daylight hours."

She frowned. "This really isn't the best ti—"

At that moment a baby began to wail. Dick did a double take as he realized that the cries were coming from the apartment. "I can hear that," he said quickly. "I could come back—"

Selina was shaking her head. "No… no, on second thought, you might as well come in. I'll just be a minute—she's due for her feeding." She turned on her heel abruptly. The door swung back behind her. Dick flattened his palm against it before it could shut entirely.

"Sit," Selina called from the hallway. Then in a softer voice, "It's okay, baby… Mommy's got your bottle, yes she does. Sh… sh… Don't you cry, now…"

From his vantage point, Dick could see her striding down the hall toward the kitchen, a bundle wrapped in a white blanket braced securely against her shoulder. A moment later, she returned, now cradling the baby in her left arm, while her right hand held the bottle so that the infant could nurse. She sat down opposite Dick. "So," she said casually, "what's this about?"

Dick blinked, still stunned at the sight of Selina with a baby. "Um…"

Selina sighed. "Fine. Yes, she's mine. Her name is Helena, she's twenty-four weeks old…" she hesitated, then drew a deep breath, "and I don't know."

Dick's eyes grew wide. Was she saying what he thought she was saying? "E-excuse me?" He managed.

She rocked the baby gently, as she smiled down at her. "I don't know," she repeated, less defiantly than she had the first time. "Three nights before he was arrested," she stated, "Bruce was with me. Four nights after he was arrested, I… Let's just say it hit me hard. I woke up here, the next morning, with someone else beside me. Two weeks after that, I found out that I was pregnant."

Dick gaped at her. "Wow. And you didn't have a paternity test done?"

"What would have been the point?" She demanded. "I'm not planning on collecting child support, and knowing who the father is isn't going to change anything." She lowered her eyes again.

"The truth is," she continued, "I wanted to believe she's his. I still do. I thought that if he knew about her, it might give him an—an incentive to get better. I couldn't lie to him about something like that, but I thought, if I didn't know for sure, then it wouldn't really be lying. Except that if it turned out that she wasn't his after all…" She let her voice trail off. "Anyway," she smirked, "seeing as protection was used by both parties on both occasions, well… knowing Bruce… if anyone could beat those odds…" She broke off, laughing at his expression.

Dick knew his face had to be beet-red. He wasn't exactly a prude, but when it came to Bruce, there were certain activities in which he just preferred not to picture his _de facto_ father.

"Even if his identity _hadn't_ been publicized," Selina continued, sobering, "I don't know if I would have had the test done. If Bruce wants to be with me when all this is over, then the baby's part of that package; no matter who the father is. And if he can't accept that, then he's not the man I think he is… and I can't be with him. So, really, it's a non-issue."

She smiled, then. "So, enough on that subject, what did you want to see me about?"

It took him a moment to remember. "Forget it. It's not important."

"It's important," she countered. "You wouldn't knock on my door to try to sell me a magazine subscription." She grinned mischievously. "C'mon, spill."

Dick sighed. "Robin's leaving Gotham. That leaves me short-staffed. I was hoping you'd be available… but…" his eyes darted toward Helena, "obviously, you've got other responsibilities."

Selina nodded agreement, but her smile remained. "I haven't given up _completely_ on being Catwoman," she pointed out. "If I had, I wouldn't have helped you out with Scarecrow. But," she admitted, "I _have_ cut back. I've been training Holly to fill in for me but she's still learning."

"Understood." He hesitated. "Ever since Bruce's arrest, we… Batgirl, Robin and I, that is, have been on a rotating schedule—two nights on, one night off. It's been working out well. With Robin leaving, though…" He steepled his fingers. "How often _are_ you available?"

She frowned, thinking. "I can give you one night per week. And," she added, "if there's trouble in the East End on any other night, you can involve Holly." She adjusted her grip on the baby bottle. "If it's _costumed_ trouble in the East End, forget Holly, involve me. Holly can watch Helena if I can't get a sitter."

Dick nodded. That was better than he'd hoped for, after seeing Selina with the baby. "Thank-you," he smiled.

She smiled back. "No problem, Junior."

Her expression turned serious. "One more thing, since you're here. Can you pass on a warning for me? Oracle doesn't contact me very often."

Dick tensed. "Oracle? What about her?"

Selina's eyebrows knit together. "I have it on some very good authority that Penguin's been trying to ascertain her whereabouts. He's offering a fair amount of money for that kind of intel, too."

Dick nodded grimly. "Thanks. Oracle's pretty good about hiding her tracks… but I'll forward that message along to her."

"She may not have been good enough," Selina persisted. "My contact tells me somebody approached Cobblepot claiming to have the information he wanted. I don't know how reliable that claimant is, but I can give you a name."

"I'm listening."

"Carter. First name's Brett."

"I'll tell her," Dick repeated. "It's probably nothing, but I'll let her know. Thanks again."

* * *

"It's trouble," Barbara said flatly. 

Dick placed a hand on her shoulder. "Who is he?"

"CIA, I think." She removed her glasses absently and began to polish them with a chamois cloth. "He claimed to be from Homeland Security, but I have my doubts."

"Homeland Sec—_Babs!_ For chrissake! When… how…?"

She replaced her glasses and wheeled her chair around to face him. "A day or so after I kicked you out of the Clocktower," she admitted. "And because I was stupid." She sighed. "It actually goes back a bit further," she said. "I came into the possession of a lot of highly classified files that originally belonged to a professional blackmailer. One of his victims was a US Senator. The Senator wanted the disks, or he was threatening to come after me… after Oracle. He had a team of agents nab me on the street… along with nine other women that he'd decided fit a profile. Carter was one of that team."

She grimaced. "I've had finer moments."

Dick took her hand between his. "And Carter remembers you?"

"He should," Barbara admitted sheepishly. "I stole his cell phone to send out a distress call to Huntress."

Dick's lips twitched. A guffaw escaped him. "Only you," he managed to gasp.

His laughter was contagious. Barbara joined in. "To make a long story short," She said, sobering, "I got Senator Pullman captured on film saying something damaging and he's currently serving time at Ray Brook," she named a medium security facility in upstate New York. "But a lot of his people turned states' evidence to save their own necks." She rolled over to one of her consoles and began to type. "So let's see whatever happened to Car…" Her eyes went wide.

"I don't believe it." She let loose with a string of profanity that might have made a teamster blush. "He," she cursed again, "cooled his heels for eight months in a… a country club and got sentenced to time served and probation! I could just…"

"Hey," Dick grabbed her hands. "Hey, take it easy. Calm down."

Barbara took a deep breath. "If he knows… then this is trouble." She thought for a moment. "Alright. If it's Penguin doing the hunting, it's not that bad. I can fool him. Let me make some calls, find out whether I need to upgrade any security systems."

She hesitated. "While we're at it… Dick… if Dr. Morgenstern was wrong and Bruce _can_ get out on his own…"

"Or if I help him anyway," Dick interjected. "It's possible," he admitted under her incredulous look. "I can't know what I'll do unless I'm in that situation, let's be honest."

Barbara nodded, conceding the point. "Fine. If Bruce escapes, the first thing the cops will do is get a warrant to search your place. And if your place is _our_ place, that compromises me. There aren't many places to hide my operations if the police are actually _looking_ for a secret room."

"So, option C, then?" Dick asked.

Barbara nodded. Option C meant buying a condo and outfitting it with Thanagarian, Kryptonian, Martian and motherbox security systems. Option C also meant that Oracle would set up shop in one of the satellite Batcaves. "Bye-bye home office," she said ruefully.

"Look, if you're having second thoughts…"

Barbara shook her head. "There's never going to be a perfect time. I've thought about this, and thought about it and… if we can make it work, then…" she slipped her hand into his, "then we should go for it."

He stooped down so that they could share a kiss. As they separated, Dick asked, "Carter?"

"By himself, he's relatively harmless," Barbara said. "And we can both keep an eye on Penguin. "We don't need to make a move until he does." She smiled nervously. "But if you could bug him… and bug the Iceberg while you're at it…"

Dick chuckled at that. "I told Ozzie I'd be keeping an eye on him. Time to show him I'm a man of my word."

* * *

Dick somersaulted down from the uneven parallel bars, landed in a handstand, and flipped solidly to his feet. Next, he did a series of back-flips, moving effortlessly into a double salto. A back handspring led to a cartwheel, which in turn led into a series of capoeira moves. He began to weave in elements of kickboxing, blending them seamlessly with hapkido and tae kwon do. 

He came to rest before the heavy punching bag, and quickly donned a pair of boxing gloves. Jab… jab… left haymaker… right haymaker… He'd just delivered a left hook when he became aware of someone else's presence in the cave. He swiveled his head to see Tim standing at the entrance to the training area.

"Did you want to use this?" He asked, as he went back to the routine. "I'll be done in another minute or two."

Tim shook his head. "No. I just figured I should give the suit back." He held out the Robin costume.

Dick dropped his arms to his side. "You don't think you'll need it in 'Frisco?"

"You haven't seen the tapes at Arkham for the past week, have you?" Tim stated.

"I saw them," Dick said shortly. "I shouldn't have pushed you into going."

Tim looked away. "I didn't know I was going to tear into him like that," he said. "I really wasn't planning on—"

Dick held up a hand. "I know." He sighed. "Don't expect me to tell you it's fine. It isn't. But you already know that, or you wouldn't be trying to hand back the suit."

Tim smiled faintly at that. "It's just… Batman might need a Robin, but since I'm not going to be operating in Gotham for awhile… I figured I should leave the uniform for the next guy… or girl."

His smile grew a little wider. "The Teen Titans are going to get a new member in a few days," he continued. He crossed over to the computer station and called up a file. A humanoid figure appeared on the screen. It wore a charcoal-gray hood, which attached to a flowing cape of the same color. The cape's edges were black. Beneath the cape, the figure sported a silver-gray bodysuit, held in at the waist by a black belt. "It's still a rough design," he admitted, "but if all goes well, you can be the first to say hello… to the Harrier."

He looked up nervously, as though afraid that the older vigilante might laugh. He'd spent days trying to come up with a name that hadn't already been taken… and wasn't utterly ridiculous.

Dick only nodded. "I like the suit. And the name's not bad either." He clapped the youth warmly on the shoulder. "But as long as you're in Gotham, Batman could _still_ use a Robin tonight. If you're up for it."

Tim grinned. "You got it. Just let me work through my training katas."

"Need a partner?"

Tim hesitated. "You… um… meant it when you said you weren't mad at me about Bruce, right?" He pulled out his collapsible staff and, in a single fluid movement, extended it horizontally before him.

Dick settled into a combat stance. "I never actually _said_ I wasn't mad," he pointed out as he lunged for the younger man.

Tim sidestepped and swung his staff into Dick's mid-section. The battle was on.

* * *

"Children are usually good at play-acting," Alex remarked when Bruce was finished. "It sounds to me like you ended up forgetting it was an act." 

"It wasn't a game," Bruce pointed out.

"No, you're right. I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

Silence. After a moment, Bruce ventured, "I knew that I didn't want to leave. I had to do… something to stop that from happening."

Alex glanced at the timer on his desk and made a mark in the book in front of him. "So you curtailed the time that you had to mourn."

"It was necessary."

"Was it?" Alex asked.

"Yes," Bruce insisted. "If I wanted to avoid foster care, I had to show that I had moved on. I had to…" he broke off.

Alex waited. "You had to… what?"

Bruce shook his head. "Can we stop here?"

"If you want to," Alex frowned.

Bruce slumped in his chair. "But you think I should keep going."

"As I said previously, beginnings are almost always hard. It's something like the story of the young musician who told his teacher that he wanted to become a concert violinist. The teacher sized up the young musician and gave him some honest counsel."

Bruce leaned forward. Alex continued.

"'If you intend to pursue this path', the teacher said, 'know that the way will be arduous. You will need to endure at least a decade of grinding, grueling hardship as you eke out your living. You'll learn to subsist on stale bread and old vegetables. You'll sleep in a leaky garret.'

"The student nodded, but asked hopefully, 'And after that decade?'

"The teacher looked at him and shrugged. 'After ten years, you should be used to it, so it won't seem so bad.'"

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "That's hardly encouraging." He was smiling, though, however faintly.

"I know," Alex admitted, "but it's honest. What you're doing now isn't easy. And it isn't fun. And I'm not going to try to delude you that it's going to get any easier or more enjoyable as we do progress. But you know something? If that musician understands what the next decade holds for him, and decides that it's worth the privations, there's a reasonably good chance he'll be playing professionally at the end of that time. Besides," he said as his eyes locked with Bruce's, "I don't think you'll be able to convince me that the steps you took on your way to becoming Batman were fun _or _easy."

Bruce looked away. "No," he admitted.

"So how is this different?"

Bruce was silent, thinking. "I don't see how it matters," he said finally.

"I'm sorry?"

"As you surmised," Bruce sighed, "I know something of psychology. So I'm not completely unfamiliar with the idea that I've been… suppressing—perhaps even protecting—my inner child." He shook his head. "There. I said it." His lip curled sarcastically. "Am I 'cured', now?"

"Considering that the notion likely occurred to you long before you came to this institution," Alex said, "I think you know the answer to that one." He folded his hands. "Root causes are certainly important. But understanding them doesn't make the problems they spawned magically disappear."

"What does, then?" Bruce asked, suddenly interested in hearing Alex's response.

"Accepting that knowing why the problems exist is less important than working on how to solve them. In other words, changing the existing behavior is more important than digging into the root cause of it."

Alex waited for his words to sink in. "We can stop here if you like," he said. "Have you had a chance to look over your options for privileges?"

Bruce nodded slowly. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for 'class privileges'—the opportunity to enroll in correspondence courses through one of the community colleges. Jeremiah could rescind that perk and Bruce wouldn't bat an eye.

"Phone," he heard himself saying. Now where had that come from? He started to correct himself, and then stopped. He would be permitted to make one fifteen-minute telephone call per week. Fifteen minutes was _nothing_. Bruce would barely remember that he had that particular privilege. Leave it.

Alex nodded. "Fine."

* * *

Firefly pondered. He was armed with a map and pictorial atlas of the city and a listing of notable buildings and landmarks. There were so many decisions to be made. He could select his targets for symmetry, or for location. There could be a rigid geometric pattern to follow, or he could aim for randomness and asymmetrical design. He needed to decide on criteria. 

Thoughtfully, he walked over to the back door of his flat and stepped out on the fire escape. Perhaps he could draw inspiration from something in the outdoors. He lifted his gaze skyward, and frowned. A decrepit tenement blocked his view of the stars. The eyesore was at least four stories higher than his balcony, rife with graffiti, and nearly begging for a wrecking ball.

_Or…_ Lynns thought, _a coruscation!_ He dashed back into the room, in sudden excitement. Gotham had so many blemishes on its architectural landscape. Slums, tenements, warehouses… he flipped through the pictorial atlas nodding to himself. Some of these structures were well over a century old and practically begging to be torn down. He turned the next page, and a savage smile split his face from ear to ear. He knew this building. He'd spent years in it. And he would take great pleasure in making it the apex of his next exhibit.

He nodded to himself. Burning down Arkham Asylum would be a sheer joy…

* * *

He'd been sitting on the couch facing Alex for an eternity. Four minutes wasted, while he attempted to start a conversation. "I," he cleared his throat. 

Alex made a motion toward the water pitcher on his desk. "Did you—?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. Thank-you. I just…" He lowered his head. "I… this is not… easy for me."

Alex started to say something. Bruce held up a hand.

"But," he continued, "it is necessary. I realize that." He hesitated. "Admitting to vulnerabilities is not something to which I am accustomed."

"Well," Alex said when he was sure that Bruce was done, "it would be surprising if, before you went into a physical fight, you took a moment to tell your sparring partner exactly where your weakest points were. Yet, in a psychological arena…"

Bruce looked up. "I notice that you said 'partner' rather than 'opponent'."

"You haven't let your powers of observation atrophy. That's encouraging."

"Encouraging."

Alex shrugged. "You've been fairly non-responsive until recently. How was I to know how much stock you'd been taking of your surroundings?"

Bruce sighed. "Enough for me to avoid forcible feeding, permanent disability, and catheters. As for the rest of the amenities provided here, I… saw no need to avail myself."

"Well," Alex's eyes crinkled at the corners, "I can't argue with your exclusions. Mind you… what you call the 'other amenities'… from what I've managed to glean from the reports, it seemed as though you went beyond not needing them. One might even go so far as to say you shunned them."

"It's foolish to rely on something that can be taken from you." The words came out in a rush.

The psychiatrist nodded his understanding. "So you chose not to accept them in the first place. An effective, albeit harsh, strategy."

Bruce set his jaw. "It had the desired results." Then he remembered about the visits. "Most of the time."

Alex nodded again. "It made you less dependent on the system."

He could see where this was going. Time to cut to the chase. "So," Bruce drew a deep breath, "you'd like to address my… issues with control."

"I'd like to start," the doctor said. "But if you'd be more comfortable trying this at a later session…"

"No," Bruce sighed. He'd known that the subject was going to come up soon. Alex had been dropped too many hints over the last few days for Bruce not to be prepared for this exercise. "You've been… catering to that… facet of my personality from the beginning. I'd prefer not to delay the inevitable." He met Alex's gaze head-on. "You've allowed me to decide when to initiate conversation. I've chosen the subjects. You've asked for my input or at least my approval for this…" his lips twisted into a faint grimace, "this attempt to motivate me to acquire additional… incentives." He sighed. "I'm hardly oblivious to your methodology, Doctor. And… it has recently come to my attention that…" he forced himself to continue, "that my need to control a situation does, in fact, hamstring me on occasion." _It had nearly led him to stop Dick's visits of his own accord._ "As such," he admitted, "it has become a liability."

"So," Alex lifted his eyebrows, "your need to control has gotten… out of control?"

Bruce bit down on the inside of his cheek, refusing to respond to the doctor's smile. "That would be one way to phrase it."

Alex waited.

"Well?" Bruce snapped. "Are you going to help me, or not?"

A slow smile spread across the older man's face. "Time will tell. But I'm game if you are."

* * *

Cassandra Cain stalked into Barbara's work area, face clouded. "Why can't I see the patterns?" She demanded. At Barbara's surprised start, Cass held up the bag of letters. She loosened the drawstring, plunged one hand into its depths and extracted one of the symbols. 

"Jade." She proclaimed. "J." She reached in again. "Hemp. H. Tin. T."

The red-haired woman grinned. "Cass! That's excellent. My gosh do you realize—"

The younger woman cut her off. "No. It's… um… a game. A trick." She dropped the bag on the table. The letters clacked as they landed. "A joke." She shook her head. "I'll show you." She pointed to the display on the computer screen. "F. C. I. R. A. Y. B. R," she continued to name off the letters. "But that's not… reading! It's… it's like I know 'punch', 'kick', 'throw', 'flip', but I can't… put them together. Just knowing moves… it isn't fighting unless I can see the… um… the pattern."

"Two months ago," Barbara pointed out, "you couldn't tell an A from a B. Cass, you can't learn this overnight."

"Stick fighting," Cass countered.

"Wh-what?"

"Batman taught me," she explained. "After breakfast. One day. I learned it that morning. I didn't forget. I didn't have to practice each lunge. It all made _sense_!"

"That's right," Barbara said. "Because it was a fighting style. It wasn't anything you'd been taught before, but you recognized the technique from the styles you _did_ know." She patted the vigilante's arm. "Just like you'll learn to recognize new words after awhile, even if you haven't come across them before."

Cass thought about that for a moment. Then, she slowly reached out for the bag again. "I want to," she said. "But I hate this." She weighed the bag in the palm of her hand. "I don't like feeling… stupid." More quietly, "maybe I… _am_ stupid after all."

"Hey," Barbara said. "Hey! You are NOT stupid. If you were, you wouldn't have learned stick fighting in less than a day."

Cass gaped at her. "But… that's easy." She reached for Barbara's escrima and automatically held them in the beginning position for a sumbrada drill.

"For you," Barbara scoffed. "But physical combat is your first language. Cass, you didn't even speak English three years ago. Of course reading it is going to be harder for you."

"But I learned stick fighting in…"

"This isn't stick fighting."

Cass frowned. "But there's no… pattern. Barbara?" she asked, "why does my name have… two esses in it?"

Barbara blinked. "What?"

Cass spilled out the letters. "C.A.S," she held up each symbol in turn. Then she pointed again to the elegant curved wooden shape covered with a layer of sandpaper. "S," she repeated. "Why twice?"

Barbara pushed herself away from the computer. "Because if a word ends in just one 'ess'," she explained, "it sounds like a 'zee'."

Cass touched the zinc plating on another letter. "Then, why not use a 'zee' when you want a letter that sounds like that? Does the zee also…um… change?"

Barbara frowned. "Er… no." _Not unless there are two of them together, like in 'pizza', anyway._ "Not usually," she amended.

"Then, why not?"

"I don't know," Barbara admitted. "It's one of the rules."

"The rules are stupid."

Barbara looked up in time to catch a hint of a smile on the young woman's lips. "Well, there are tricks to them," she grinned. "What you were calling 'patterns' before. They're not as cut-and-dried as you'd like, but there's still some logic to them, if you know what to look for."

"Show me?" Cass asked.

"Okay," Barbara replied, grinning. "Let's go upstairs to the den, and I'll see if I can find a good book to start with. I'm not sure I'm the best teacher, mind you," she added as she wheeled over toward the elevator, "but I'll try if you will."

Cass gathered up the letters hastily and followed. "Yes."

* * *

It had taken nearly a month for Bruce to earn those first hundred points. He hadn't tried exercising the new privilege yet, despite Dick casually sliding a list of contact telephone numbers over to him. He didn't want to become too attached to a privilege he might lose at any time. There wasn't much need for the phone, in any case; not with his family visiting on a daily basis. 

Alex had, so far, kept up his end of things. He never pushed. If Bruce used up the full hour one day, and barely managed six minutes the next, Alex went back to his crossword puzzles. There was, as he had promised, no pressure.

Over the last few days, Bruce had to admit that he'd been feeling calmer… lighter. As though he'd been holding his breath without realizing it, and then released it. It wasn't just the relief he experienced when he exhaled; it was the wonder that he hadn't thought to do so earlier.

He went over his notes on the missing persons case. They were as complete as they could be from here. When Dick came around tonight, he resolved, he'd ask him to run some additional searches. From this point onward, he needed the databases in the crays.

He sighed as he reached behind him for the towel and fresh clothing. Late afternoon seemed a long way off. Between the books and the cold case files he no longer wanted for intellectual stimulation, but in truth, he would welcome more time outside of these quarters. Maybe, he thought as he made his way to the back of the cell, it was time to work toward yard privileges. He hadn't been out of doors in almost a year, now. It might be a good idea to earn that option back before winter set in.

Bruce shook his head, smiling a little. Shower first. Then the case files. And then… he would see.

"Just to make you aware," Alex said, "I'll be away for six weeks starting the 25th of October." At Bruce's sharp look, the therapist continued. "Today's only the 4th, so we have a little while to go, yet. I thought you might need some time to get used to the idea."

Bruce absorbed that. "Where are you going?"

"University of Nebraska at Blue Valley." Alex smiled. "They have a work-study program—half the semester in classes, half in the workforce. I've been invited to give a seminar for the fall term."

"On abnormal psychology?" Bruce guessed.

Alex shifted a little in his chair. "Building rapport, actually," he said. "The topic was chosen by UNBV. Well over a month before you turned up on my roster, by the way."

Bruce had just been wondering about that. Well, he supposed he could attest to Alex's gifts in that particular area. "So," he asked, "what happens to m… to your patients, in the interim?"

"The other staff will be taking over my caseload," Alex said. "It _is_ only temporary."

Bruce nodded. In the past, when an inmate had escaped the asylum, Batman had questioned many a staff doctor, the better to understand the escapee's frame of mind and likely plans. And, of course, more recently, he'd met with these professionals under more onerous circumstances. "Are you aware of the doctor to whom I'll be assigned?" He forced his voice to remain steady.

Alex nodded, as an expression of sympathy crept onto his face. "Doctor Arkham stated that he'll be looking after your case personally."

Bruce exhaled slowly. That settled it. If he was going to have to endure an hour with Jeremiah, he was _definitely_ going to need an hour of fresh air, too. He had to win back his yard privileges, and fast.

"Have you considered," he deadpanned after a moment's pause, "that there are trained professionals here who might benefit even more from the subject of your seminar?"

"More than half of them are within ten years of retirement. I'm thinking about the next generation." He steepled his fingers. "Moving on…"

* * *

Rubber-soled shoes tramped briskly down the corridor. Bruce recognized Montoya's step. The officer was walking faster than usual, nearly running, in fact. 

"Batman!" she called before she was within eyeshot.

It amused him that, in all this time, she still hadn't called him by any other name. He was probably just as bad, he realized, as he turned to face the window. "Detective."

She was beaming. "Caia Rodriguez and her mother were reunited this morning at Goodwin Airport. We're charging Fernando Saldana in the kidnapping." She placed her palm flat against the window. "We can stamp this one 'solved', Batman. Thanks."

Bruce nodded. "It was the great uncle, then, rather than the grandparents. I couldn't be sure. I had to have Dick run some data," he confessed.

Montoya shook her head in mock-disapproval. "You mean you cheated? How _could _you?" She grinned. "I don't care who found the missing piece. There's a little girl back home where she belongs, and she wouldn't be if I hadn't given you that file."

A brief answering smile flickered on Bruce's face, and then vanished. "Thank-you," he said. "I… may have something for you on one of the other files shortly. There's… something I'm missing on the Lacey murder. It will come, I'm sure."

"Whenever you have it," Montoya nodded. "I have to run. Departmental meeting I've got to prepare for before the shift starts. But I wanted to swing by and tell you on my way to Central."

"I appreciate that," Bruce said, meaning it. "Another time, then?"

"Soon," she agreed. "Thanks again."

* * *

_Two weeks later_

"Fire crews were called to the scenes of two separate warehouse fires on Gotham's South Island at approximately eleven P.M last night. On Port Adams, the building belonging to Maleev Imports, burned entirely to the ground. And, at the opposite end of the Island, Gale Consolidated suffered heavy smoke damage, but remains standing. A spokesman for Gale stated that it may be over six months before the facility is again operational. The two fires are both believed to have broken out between 10:20 and 10:45 last night. Arson has not been ruled out at this time."

Firefly frowned. It was really a pity about Gale Consolidated. He hadn't expected an old warehouse to have such a high-quality sprinkler system installed. He should have checked. This was hardly an auspicious beginning to his masterwork. For a moment, he debated scrapping the project entirely. Common sense won out. He'd planned to start with a series of common fires, gradually building to a conflagrant chef d'oeuvre. If one of the first such spectacles fizzled, it was of no matter. He just had to build momentum from here.

A dreamy smile spread across his face. _It would be stupendous!_

_

* * *

October 25th_

Bruce tried to smother his dislike of the man seated at the desk before him. Jeremiah Arkham had waved him over to the treatment couch and instructed, no _ordered_ him to lie down. He could feel his resolve to work with the asylum director evaporating rapidly.

"Doctor Morgenstern tells me you've been making progress." Somehow, he made the statement sound as though it was an accusation.

Silence might be misinterpreted as apathy. He'd practically given his word to Alex that he'd try to work with Jeremiah. Bruce paused. "He's said as much to me," he replied.

"And what do _you_ think?"

Bruce considered. "It's possible," he said guardedly.

Arkham harrumphed noisily. "Yes, so I see." His pen stabbed his notepad for emphasis. "Phone privileges, yard privileges, lounge privileges, my… you've been busy, haven't you? I wonder what his trick is."

Bruce couldn't quite tell whether the question was rhetorical. "As I understand it, he's openly teaching it to an undergraduate class in Nebraska," he pointed out. "Perhaps," he added blandly, "you could enroll."

_I should only be that lucky._

A quick glance at the doctor told Bruce that his barb had connected.

"I'm sorry," Arkham said in clipped tones, "that my professional credentials don't meet with your approval. However, Bruce, there is one thing that you may be overlooking."

_The massive chip on your shoulder? No… no, I think I caught that._ Bruce favored him with a mild inquiring look.

Arkham continued. "Your personal opinion of me doesn't matter."

_I beg to differ._

"Dr. Morgenstern's assessment of your case certainly bears some weight, but ultimately?" The asylum director leaned marginally closer, a smug smile spreading across his face. "It doesn't matter how many glowing reports he writes, nor how many privileges he awards you, nor how in demand he is as an instructor or speaker. The decision on whether to convene another competency hearing rests with me, and me alone. And from what I've seen of your attitude, Bruce? That hearing might be a very long time coming."

Despite himself, he felt his heart begin to pound as Arkham's words penetrated. What was the matter with him? Bruce knew he belonged here; even Alex wasn't arguing with him on that score. Why should he care whether Jeremiah agreed with that assessment… or whether the doctor mistakenly believed that he wanted to be discharged? He should be laughing at the wrongness of that assumption. So… why wasn't he?

Something in his expression must have registered with the doctor, for he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. "So, Bruce. Let's begin, shall we? Tell me what's on your mind."

* * *

Cobblepot slammed down the receiver. The number that Calculator had given him was no longer in service. And there had been no word from Carter since that scene in front of the Iceberg, weeks ago. 

A brief knock sounded on the door to his office.

"Enter," he commanded.

A wiry figure in blue dungarees complied.

Cobblepot peered down the length of his nose at the pockmarked man. "Well?"

"It's like you thought, Penguin," he replied. From an inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a manila envelope. Cobblepot took it. He examined the three photographs inside with a frown. So Kuttler _had_ doublecrossed him. The man had gone—behind Penguin's back—to seek out Carter. "Thank you, Hector. That will be all." He dismissed the flunky with a wave of his hand.

No sooner had the door shut behind the man than Cobblepot leaped up from behind his desk in a fit of rage. _Nobody cheated the Penguin out of his due! _"Wak!" He squawked, booting over the wastepaper basket. _When the word got out, he'd be a laughingstock in the Gotham Underworld. _"Wak! Wak! WAK!" He punctuated each outburst with a kick to his umbrella stand. It toppled after the third blow from his foot. Not yet mollified, he aimed another blow at the bar fridge. He squawked again—from pain, this time—and hopped about on one foot.

Had that been Calculator's plan all along? If a man wanted to establish himself as a primary service provider, it was only good business to eliminate—or humiliate—the competition. And when said service was information, Penguin slammed his hand down on the desk, he _was_ the Calculator's competition. He couldn't believe he'd been taken in.

A moment later, he drew a deep breath, composed himself, and sat back down at his desk as though nothing had happened. So, Calculator thought that he could use the Penguin's own information network, and then squeeze the Penguin out of his cut? "Hmpf," he snorted. "We'll just see about that." He lifted the receiver and dialed a number.

"I need you to find a man," he stated to the party at the other end of the line. "And ensure that you do not try to find him by any electronic means." He considered. "Don't communicate with me again by telephone, either. Just come by in person to tell me where he is, once you've located him. His name is…"

* * *

_One week later_

"Tell me what you're thinking of at this moment, Bruce."

_You really don't want to go there._

"Well?"

Bruce blinked innocently at him, trying to keep his expression bland. "There is a world of difference between a conversation and an interrogation."

As expected, Jeremiah pounced on the utterance. "What do you mean by that?"

"If you have to ask, there's no point my telling you."

A flush of red appeared over Jeremiah's cheekbones and began to spread. "Is there anything else then that you _would_ like to tell me?"

_Oh, I can think of a few things. But prudence would seem to recommend that I refrain from actually **saying** them._

He rolled his eyes and remained silent. Jeremiah waited.

"Very well, Bruce," Arkham said finally. "As I promised earlier, effective immediately, your lounge privileges are hereby suspended. Should your behavior become more cooperative over the course of the next five days, I will reinstate them. If not, I shall have no choice but to remove your yard privileges." Arkham's lip curled mockingly.

"Dr. Morgenstern's notes indicate that you seem to have a need to control your environment. I can assure you, Bruce, that whether you retain or relinquish the freedoms you've earned so very recently is entirely in your hands."

Bruce clenched his teeth against the asylum director's diatribe. Anything he might say at this point would only serve to antagonize the man further. _Seven days down, thirty-five to go_, he told himself. He could last that long.

Arkham opened the door to his office to admit the guards. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bruce," he said with a thin smile.

Bruce didn't answer.

* * *

The cell door clanged shut behind him. Bruce could hear the guards fussing with the two padlocks, threading them through the catches on the door, and snapping them closed. It was an extra precaution—even if he somehow managed to pick the primary lock on the door, the additional measures would still prevent his pushing it open. 

It had never bothered him before. Bruce looked around. The furnishings were unchanged, the dimensions of the room as always—not spacious by any means, but then he didn't need much room. It was a shame about losing the lounge privileges, though. He didn't really care—he'd earned them, as Alex had suggested, in order to have something to lose. Still, it had been pleasant to have that extra hour away from his cell. He sighed. He'd managed without it for so long; he'd manage again.

As far as the yard privileges were concerned, it might make sense to turn them down now, and get used to the idea.

_Of course. And I can tear up the list of telephone numbers and tell Dick to stay away, too. _For the first time he recognized the old pattern _before_ he fell into it. He'd gone back to kicking down his sandcastles before anyone else did. If he was going to lose the privileges anyway, wouldn't it make more sense for him to enjoy them while he could? He had five more days, and then, once again, he would be confined here, only to emerge for his therapy sessions. With Jeremiah Arkham. Bruce closed his eyes. He had to endure another five weeks of Jeremiah Arkham. He shook his head. He needed that hour when he was neither confined in his cell, nor trapped with Jeremiah. Without it, he knew with chilling certainty, he wouldn't last.

For the first time since his arrival at the asylum, Bruce felt trapped. For the first time in the fifteen months that he had been here, he saw the asylum for what it was: a prison. And for the first time… he was able to admit it. He wanted out.

* * *

_Six nights later_

"So, Babs and I are going to Reed's to pick out a dining room set this weekend. She's looking at something traditional. Personally, I don't care, I mean we'll be covering the wood over with protective pads and tablecloths most of the time anyway…" He broke off as he realized that Bruce's fingers were drumming a staccato pattern on the cell wall.

"Sorry," Dick said instantly. "You should have said something if I was boring you."

Bruce continued to tap, more slowly this time.

Dick's eyes narrowed as he recognized the code.

G… E… T… M…E…O…U…T

_Get me out_. Bruce repeated the phrase again, tapping even more deliberately.

Dick swallowed. "It's in the works," he said. He rambled on about the furnishings that he was looking into as he brought his own hand to the screen. With his other hand, he cautiously began to drum out the steps that they'd all been taking almost from Bruce's arrival at Arkham… Barbara had been writing to other facilities upstate. Rae Green was preparing for a court battle. Dick's own use of the bat-suit had some people questioning whether the right man was currently incarcerated.

_I can't wait that long_. The speed of Bruce's fingers gave voice to the urgency of his statement. _Dick_. His hand paused for a moment, as he sought his surrogate son's eyes. Slowly, he resumed: _I. Won't. Last. Here. Get me out_. He pressed his palm flat against the mesh screen, covering Dick's and spoke one word out loud: "Please."

The younger man closed his eyes. _And then what?_ He tapped. _Where will you go? Not home, they'll check the manor first. Then they'll shadow me. Probably Gordon too. That'll make it hard for either of us to check up on you._ For the microphones' benefit, he forced himself to chatter on about the linoleum patterns for the kitchen, as he tried to ignore the lump forming in his throat.

_I'm not a child, Dick. I'll manage_.

_How?_ Dick bit his lip as he continued to beat out the words. _Tell me. Give me something to go on. Because otherwise, you're going to go from a cell here at Arkham where you at least get an hour of fresh air—_

"I lost that privilege today," Bruce snapped aloud. At Dick's stunned expression, he tapped slowly: _I can not work with that man. I've tried. Dick. This is not an easy thing for me to admit. I need to get out of here, and I can't do it alone. You know it's never been easy for me to ask for help. I'm asking. If one positive thing has come from my being here, let it be that I can now admit when something is beyond me. Help me. Get me out. Please._

Despite himself, ideas began to germinate. He could take out the alarm. Catwoman could handle the locks. Cass could cover him… and… reality sunk in. Bruce would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Isolated, alone, and completely cut off from any contact with his former existence. Dick had tried that route himself, and not that long ago. Following Blockbuster's death, he'd thrown himself in with the mob. He'd convinced himself that it was the only option that he'd burned all his bridges and this was all that was left. And he'd hated it. It was as though he'd taken everything meaningful in his life and smothered it, convinced that he didn't deserve to enjoy it. Inside, he'd been dying.

He and Bruce were two separate people. What held true for him didn't necessarily hold true for Bruce. But… _but Bruce named me as his power of attorney. That means he trusted me to make the tough decisions if he couldn't. And right now, he's too close to the situation to see it objectively._ He drew a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. He had to do this right. Bruce would likely shrug off any attempt to point out the difficulties inherent in remaining at large. Given the circumstances Dick could hardly blame him.

_I'm sorry, Bruce_, he tapped. _It's too risky. _At Bruce's dumbfounded expression, Dick forced himself to continue. _If we got caught, you'd just end up back here. I'd be in Blackgate. Babs and I are together, now. They'll investigate her, too. We are working to get you out, but we have to go through channels and it's taking time._

As Dick tapped his message, Bruce's eyes grew cold. "I see," he said aloud. "You won't help me." He turned away. "I think I'd prefer it if you left."

Dick nodded, sadly. "I'm sorry, Bruce. I wish—"

Bruce held up a hand. "Spare me. I thought I taught you better than that. Evidently, I was wrong. I don't believe I have anything further to say to you tonight. Go on."

"Alright." Dick rose slowly to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Bruce shook his head. "Don't. I doubt I'll have much to talk about with you then, either." He turned back to face him. "There's only one subject of interest to me, right now. If you're prepared to discuss it, come back. Not before."

"Bruce, I…"

"I've said everything I intend to say to you. Get out."

* * *

_One day later_

"I'm going to head over there," Dick said finally. He'd been debating whether to return to Arkham all day. "Worst he can do is tell me to leave again."

Barbara shook her head. "And if he asks you to spring him again?"

Dick was trying not to think about that possibility. "Awhile back, Bruce bought an estate for Shondra," he replied. "If you can't find another place that'll take him, maybe that's the way to go."

Barbara reached for the stack of mail. "That might work for a little while," she said. "Then it'll start to chafe."

"You're not suggesting leaving him there."

Barbara hesitated. "How many doctors did Bruce go through?"

Dick didn't answer.

She pressed on. "As long as Bruce was lying around like a lump, to be honest, it didn't matter where he was. At that point, if we could have gotten him back to the manor, he'd have been content just staying in his bedroom all day. This… Dr. Morgenstern who's seeing him now, if nothing else, he's got Bruce fighting again."

"Yeah," Dick snorted. "Him or Jeremiah."

Barbara nodded. "Good point. All I'm saying is, it's what Alex told you. If Bruce is uncomfortable, he's going to try harder to get out. _He_ has to try."

Dick nodded. "I know you're right. I just…"

Barbara wheeled over to him. "Look," she said. "If every time I wanted to go somewhere, someone saw me struggling with this chair and 'helpfully' started pushing me, I hate to go all afterschool-special on you, but I'd never have bothered doing it on my own. That's the reason I went for a chair without handles from the start. I didn't want to get used to feeling… dependent." Her green eyes were serious. "Bruce has to get himself out of this one."

Dick nodded again. "I'll keep telling myself that, Red."

"You do that, Short-pants." They shared a smile. "He's a fighter, Dick. He's just got to remember it."

She opened the topmost envelope and extracted a single sheet of stationary. The smile froze.

"Babs? What is it?"

With a shaking hand, she passed the page over to him. "The envelope came addressed to Barbara Gordon," she said. "But the letter inside…"

"My dear Oracle," Dick read aloud. Startled blue eyes met frightened green ones. At Barbara's slight nod, he read on. "I must congratulate you on an excellent hunt. I can't think when I've had more fun matching wits with an opponent. Another time, another place, I'm sure we might have gotten along rather famously. Sadly, this is here and now. I will be in touch with you shortly, at which point we will further discuss the role I see you playing in my organization. Until then, I remain yours faithfully, The Calculator. P.S. I do realize that you may have already discerned my own alter ego. If so, do feel free to use it."

He put down the piece of paper. "Holy…"

Barbara nodded. "Okay. Okay, I have to be calm. He's not the government; he's the underworld. That means he's _not_ going to the cops. I can handle this. G-d! What does he want from me?"

"Babs." Instantly, his hand was on her shoulder.

"I'm fine." She reached up and squeezed the hand. "He's not doing anything tonight except trying to spook me." She wheeled forward and swayed as the chair bumped against the edge of the rug. "And it's working. Damn him!"

Dick cut in front of the chair and stooped to her level. "Hey. Babs. We'll get him." He laughed. "You know that."

Barbara drew a deep breath. "I know, I know. It's just…"

"Scary," Dick stated.

She nodded. "Dick. You… tonight's your night off, right?"

Dick shook his head. "Tomorrow, actually. Want me to ask Roy to fill in?"

"If you wouldn't mind," she said. "Dick? I… I wouldn't ask this normally but… do you think you could give Arkham a miss tonight?" At Dick's pained expression, she turned away. "I'm sorry. I know how worried you are about Bruce. I don't want to put you in that position. Kuttler's not going to try anything tonight, and if he does, I've got the security systems."

"Which are ninety-five per cent computer-controlled," Dick pointed out. He drew a deep breath. "My gut is telling me that Bruce didn't mean it when he said he didn't want me to keep dropping by… but that he won't realize it unless he thinks I took him at his word." He flinched. "That probably came out wrong." He inhaled a deep breath. "You've never asked me to pass up Arkham before. I know you wouldn't, if you weren't really worried."

"Tomorrow night, we'll both go," she said. "I haven't spoken to him in awhile. And I really should."

Dick nodded, praying that he was making the right decision about staying in tonight.

* * *

The police came as he was gathering up his belongings at five o'clock the next afternoon. They flashed their badges at the front desk security guard and proceeded directly to the media relations department. 

"How did you do it, Grayson?" One of them asked.

"Excuse me?" He was all too conscious of Greg Renssalaer observing the proceedings with obvious relish.

"He couldn't have gotten out on his own. So who'd you hire?"

"Whaaaaaat?"

The second officer cleared his throat. "Approximately seventy-five minutes ago, Bruce Wayne broke out of Arkham. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Dick shook his head. "Nothing. Of course," he said after a moment's thought, "if the likes of Maxie Zeus, Killer Moth, and the Ventriloquist seem to be able to walk out of the place whenever they feel like it, why would you assume Bruce needed anyone's help getting away?"

The two officers didn't laugh. "When did you see him last?" The first officer demanded.

"Two nights ago." Dick replied. "The asylum tapes should back me up."

"Any reason why you didn't show up last night?"

"Yeah," Dick said. "He asked me not to. My girlfriend and I just bought a place and I've been talking his ear off about how we're fixing it up. I guess he just got tired of hearing it."

"Congratulations." Sarcastically.

"Thanks."

The second officer looked briefly around the office. "If he contacts you, let us know," he said finally.

Dick nodded.

After the police trooped out, Dick spun to face Renssalaer. "Well?"

His co-worker shook his head. "Nothing. See you tomorrow, Grayson."

* * *

It took him a half-hour to get home. He barely remembered the drive. He was too busy thinking about Bruce. It was going to be a cold night. Did Bruce have anything other than that cotton uniform? Did he even have a decent pair of shoes? Dick knew that he was probably worrying needlessly. Bruce was sure to have some well-stocked safehouse somewhere that he'd never mentioned. Bruce was nothing if not prepared. He kept telling that to himself as he drove into the underground parking garage. He repeated it as he got into the elevator and rode it to the fourteenth floor. And he kept thinking it as he walked down the long hallway approaching his unit. 

He opened the door to see three uniformed officers poking about in his living room. Barbara sat watching them, a furious look on her face. Dick could see a blue shirt off in the kitchen as well.

"Be sure you check the coffee canister," Barbara called. "If he got his hands on the Atom's belt, he could be anywhere." She smiled a greeting at Dick, which quickly gave way to a glower. "They have a warrant. Tell me you didn't know about this."

"Not until a half-hour ago when they caught me at work."

She considered that, and then nodded. "I hope he's okay."

"Me too."

She squeezed his hand. "And no. He hasn't called here," she said. She looked up angrily at a loud crash coming from the study.

"I've spoken to Daddy," she said loudly. "He's on his way over, and we'll go out to supper as soon as _some_ people are done trashing the place." She smiled with satisfaction as she heard the books being replaced on the shelves. "They were in Dewey Decimal order," she called sweetly.

She grinned as the officer in the other room began to curse, then abruptly choked it off.

* * *

It was almost 7:30 before the police left. They might have gone earlier, but a stern look from Gordon had set them to restoring the condo to a semblance of normalcy. As the door closed behind them, Dick and Barbara released identical sighs of relief.

"I've gotten us 8 o'clock reservations at Enzo's," he said. "Let's head out."

"Sure," Barbara said. "Just let me grab a coat. It's chilly out."

Gordon saw Dick flinch at the comment. "He'll be fine, son. You know that." He forced a smile. "After all, he _is_ Batman."

"Yeah, I know," Dick agreed. "I just—"

A cell phone began to play a familiar theme. It was all Dick could do not to laugh at Gordon's expression.

_Bad boys, bad boys—what ya gonna do…_

"This was _your_ girlfriend's idea of a joke," the former commissioner grumbled as he pulled out the phone. "I can't figure out how to change that blasted ring tone." He flipped the phone open. "Hello?"

Gordon frowned. "Hello? Hello, is anyone there?" He shrugged. "Must be a wrong number," he muttered. "Hello?" Suddenly his eyes widened. "Bruce, is that you?"


	9. Chapter 9: Chills and Weeping

_Howl at the stars;  
Whisper when you're sleepy.  
I'll be there you hold you  
I'll be there to stop  
The chills and all the weeping._

_Make it clear and strong,  
So the whole night long,  
Every signal that you send,  
Until the very end  
I will not abandon you, my precious friend…_

_Jim Steinmen, Whistle Down the Wind_

_

* * *

_

"Whistle Down the Wind" lyrics by Jim Steinmen. From the _Whistle Down the Wind_ CD, copyright 1998 by Decca Broadway.

Thanks to Char and Debbie and UR2Beans for the beta!

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Chills and Weeping**

_Hours earlier…_

Getting out of Arkham had been the easy part. Over the years, Bruce had allowed himself several uneasy, but necessary compromises. Although he intended to do his utmost to ensure that the Gotham City he left behind him would be one in which children knew that they would be safe, he had trained several children to face danger on a nightly basis. He made himself the scourge of the underworld, and yet, he left the Iceberg lounge more or less alone, the better to provide him with a fount of intelligence on criminal activities. He tracked down escapees from Arkham and Blackgate and returned them to incarceration… but he did not report every escape path used by the inmates to the proper authorities. Sometimes, when Batman needed to make an entrance without the administration's knowledge, they came in handy.

One such route had come in handy this afternoon, when Bruce Wayne realized that his best chance at breaking out would come while being escorted to his therapy session. He'd seized on a momentary distraction, dispatched his guards, and fled before they knew what was happening. When the alarm had sounded, minutes later, he was already making his way through an underground passageway that did not show up on any official building plans. Oracle had altered them years ago. That was a help, and all the assistance that he knew he could expect from her now.

Bruce forced himself to keep going. He wished he had his night-vision lenses, or even a flashlight. He kept banging his shins in the near-darkness. _Stop whining and keep moving. _He pushed onward.

He emerged, blinking in the late afternoon sunlight. To be sure, it was 'sunlight' only in the strictest sense—dark clouds threatened overhead. A blast of cold air met him at the tunnel entrance and Bruce pulled the brown cardigan tightly around him. It didn't really do much to keep out the chill, but it was better than nothing. And, unlike the quilted jacket that had been issued him when he'd earned his yard privileges, the sweater didn't have 'Property of Arkham Asylum' stenciled across the back. He made his way beneath the New Trigate Bridge, canvas shoes squelching on the muddy ground, and hauled himself up a maintenance ladder. There was a narrow ledge spanning the length of the bridge, which gave him perhaps a foot of headspace if he lay down. He did so now. The ledge was only about two feet wide—wide enough to stretch out upon and crawl forward, but it was a tight fit. Slowly, he inched his way across. He knew that it was only about fifteen hundred feet to the mainland. _Not far, but_ _it would be so much easier with a line and grapnel…. _He banished the thought and kept moving.

* * *

It was raining when Bruce finally approached One Gotham Center. He'd been able to see its 110 stories projecting over the skyline as soon as he'd alighted from the bridge. It had seemed as though he'd never get there. But from this point, he was less than ten minutes away from food and shelter. He forced himself onward.

He had a satellite cave, one that he hadn't told anyone else about, set up in an old air-raid shelter under an empty office building owned by Wayne Tech. There, he would obtain better clothing, ready cash, a hot meal—he _could_ at least work a microwave—and a place to rest and plan his next move.

His grandfather, Bruce reflected, had been a careful man. He had constructed dozens of these bunkers beneath the properties he'd erected in the forties and fifties. Well over a half-century later, Bruce was reaping the benefit.

Judging from the remaining daylight, it was probably about an hour or so before dark. Were the circumstances different, he would have taken the time to look around, to really take in the city. It had been far too long since he had walked her streets. But he was alone, on the run, and clad only in a cotton cover-all and threadbare sweater. And right now, the temperature seemed to be hovering around the freezing mark…

…The traffic light changed, and a silver Jaguar sped across the intersection, drenching Bruce with a wave of icy water as it drove through a puddle.

_Terrific_. He supposed that the muddy water made the bright orange jumpsuit less obvious, but now the wind whipped mercilessly through his clothing. He pulled the sweater around him more tightly so that it entirely obscured the top part of the jumpsuit. A young man, seemingly impervious to cold, strode past him, wearing only a T-shirt, shorts and sandals. 'Alcatraz Inmate No. AZ85' was emblazoned prominently across his chest. Bruce blinked. He should have just taken his jacket. The Gotham City souvenir shops probably stocked dozens like it. He walked faster, hoping that it would help him keep warmer. He only had a few more streets to navigate.

* * *

Another car splashed him when he was a block away from the cave. Bruce's teeth were chattering as he turned the corner. He stood stock-still. His jaw dropped. The building wasn't there. There was a chain-link fence around the property, and through it, Bruce could see a massive hole. Drawing closer to the fence, he could see construction equipment within the enclosure, and he thought he could make out iron girders at the bottom of the pit. He cast about looking for the gate although he was positive that it would be locked. No surprises there, he thought, when he saw the massive padlock. His gaze slid upwards to the large white sign, stark black lettering visible by streetlight: _Future Site of Foxteca Research and Development. Completion…_ a date some eighteen months from now. His gaze slid further down the placard, and froze at the words: _A Patrick Morgan Company_. Patrick… Morgan? Correction: this was indeed a surprise to him. Near the bottom of the sign, Bruce could make out the line: _Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises: The face of Gotham City for over eighty years. _

Bruce's shoulders slumped. Since his own name had never actually been on the company logo, it wasn't quite accurate to state that they'd erased it. But by adding his grandfather to the corporate letterhead, that was essentially what they'd done.

Another gust of wind ripped into him and he shuddered. The safehouse was inaccessible. What was he supposed to do now?

* * *

"You can't stay here, pal." On a park bench, just inside the south entrance to Robinson Park, a huddled figure looked up into an unshaven face. "You were thinkin' ta spend da night in da park, s'right? Well ya can't. S'Loboyz turf, here. Once't gets a bit darker, they'll be out an' ya won't wanna be anywhere's they can see ya, 'nless ya got somethin' ya can pay 'em fer rent, like." The bum eyed him intently. "Ya don't got nuthin' like that, do ya?"

Bruce dropped his eyes wearily. "I'll… I'll have to take my chances," he said shaking his head.

The bum's eyes narrowed. "Ya got nowheres else ta go?"

Another slight headshake. "Not now." Bruce was exhausted. The adrenaline high that had gotten him this far had all but faded. "I'll manage." He always did. He just had no idea how he was going to do so this time. A paroxysm of coughing seized him.

The bum recoiled. "Getcher germs offa me!" He protested, using a grubby hand to wipe his filthy sleeve. "I don't wanna catch nothin' from youse!"

The absurdity of the situation might have made him smile, if he weren't soaking wet and shivering. "I'll be alright," he said. "I just need to rest for a minute or two." Then he could start moving again. He didn't know where quite yet, but it would come to him.

He couldn't go to one of the other caves. Dick knew their locations. And while Bruce did not honestly believe that his surrogate son would hand him back over to Arkham, after their last conversation, Bruce had no interest in seeing or speaking with him. The sensible part of his mind told him that he was being foolish. He ignored it.

The bum watched him for a moment. Then his gaze lifted, and focused on a van that was slowly approaching the park gates.

Bruce looked up apprehensively.

"Ya need a meal?" The bum asked.

"What?"

"You're new here, right?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Food, dry clothes, bed if ya want it, ya just walk up to those guys," he pointed at the truck, "an' they'll take care a youse."

Bruce was about to refuse. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the offer, but some vestige of pride within him balked at asking for that sort of assistance, no matter how bad his current circumstances appeared. He wasn't truly needy, after all. He had resources. He just couldn't access them right at the moment.

He blinked. Painted in bold black letters on the van was the legend 'Martha's Place'. Bruce swallowed. He, or at least the Wayne Foundation, acting under his instructions, had created this program. _Martha's Place_, he bit his lip. It somehow seemed appropriate that a service he'd named after his mother was there to help him now. "Thanks," he mumbled as he got up to join the straggle of indigents approaching the vehicle.

A few minutes later, he was seated in the van, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his shaking hands, and a dry blanket wrapped around his shivering shoulders as the driver started back toward the shelter.

* * *

Within the curtained cubicle, Bruce hastily donned the dry shirt and pants and rolled his coverall into a ball. He checked the sweater's pockets automatically and extracted a damp sheet of paper, neatly folded into eight squares. He transferred it to the pocket of his pants without unfolding it. Bruce regretted leaving the sweater behind, but he didn't want to risk waiting for it to dry. Besides, the Arkham security feeds would have shown him wearing it earlier. He dropped his wet things into the laundry hamper that stood at the end of the row of changing cubicles, and arranged some of the other garments on top of them.

When he emerged from the hallway, a freckle-faced youth who didn't look a day over sixteen handed him a plastic tray and waved him over to a line of people who were waiting to be served.

It wasn't until he was seated at a long table, a bowl of stew and a crusty roll in front of him that he began to reflect. What was he going to do now? How long would it be before somebody found the uniform, turned on a television set, and put two and two together?

He'd been a fugitive before, but then he'd had the costume. He'd had the essentials to survive on his own. _He'd had Alfred._

During his years of wandering, he'd lived on meager fare and slept in hovels that made Gotham's worst slums seem like his bedroom at the manor in comparison. But he'd always known that if the life he was leading proved too difficult to bear, a ticket back to civilization was one telephone call away. He'd never made that call, but the option had been there. _Alfred had been there._

Now… everything was different. He wasn't Batman anymore. It was too dangerous to be Bruce. Alfred was gone. Tim had left. And Dick… Bruce lifted a spoonful of stew to his lips. Dick had refused to help him. When he'd needed him most, Dick had turned his back on him.

He blew on the stew, chewed and swallowed. He should have known better than to rely on anyone else. Hadn't he learned yet? If you trusted people, if you cared about them, sooner or later—by accident or by design—they abandoned you. The safest thing to do was to cut them loose first.

_Kicking down our sandcastles again, aren't we?_

Bruce tried to banish the thought. This was completely different. For once he'd actually asked for help, trusting that Dick wouldn't turn him down. He'd been so sure of the boy…

_He's no boy. He's grown up. He's had to make tough decisions before. Do you really believe that this one came easily?_

Easy, hard, it didn't matter. It had been the wrong decision. He'd decided to leave Bruce in Arkham.

_So? You broke out anyway. And now you're wearing borrowed clothes, eating charity food, in a homeless shelter. Is this meant to be an improvement?_

This was temporary. He needed breathing room. The important thing was, he was out of Arkham. He was free.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Bruce tensed, eyes darting about the room. It was too crowded in here. If the police came in with guns blazing, there was too great a possibility of someone else getting hurt in the crossfire.He'd have to steer things outside… and then…? He had no Kevlar, no batarangs… he was out of practice, out of shape…

The sirens faded. Bruce breathed an inward sigh of relief.

_Yes, you're certainly free. Why not walk outside in broad daylight tomorrow and test that?_

He took another spoonful of stew. This, he realized, was quite likely what the future held for him. The supplies in the caves were meant for emergencies only. The cash stored there would likely be enough to last him for two weeks. A month, if he was careful. He wasn't used to being careful with his finances. He'd never really had to be. Two weeks, then. His forged identities would hold up to cursory scrutiny, but without Oracle to monitor them, he doubted that they'd get him by any deeper investigation.

Dick had told him to be patient, Bruce remembered. He should have listened. Instead, it dawned on him that despite the absence of locked doors, guards, and other restrictions, he was more completely cut off outside Arkham's walls than within them. For well over a year, his family had been the only thing that had kept him from giving up completely; and now, Bruce realized, even if he'd wanted to, he didn't dare contact Dick. The police were probably already monitoring that telephone number.

The spoon slid from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Bruce bent to retrieve it, and as he did so, he saw the folded paper fall out of his pocket. He picked that up and unfolded it. It was the list of contact numbers that Dick had given him weeks ago. Well, he wouldn't be needing _that_ anymore…

His eye stopped at the second number on the list. Maybe… he hesitated. Gordon knew the law. Maybe there was something… some loophole he was missing. And if not, maybe Jim would be able to pass a message on to Rae Greene for him. It was probably safer to contact Jim anyway. The police would expect him to try to reach Dick first.

One of the volunteers approached, bearing a fresh spoon. Bruce shook his head. "Is there… could I possibly make a telephone call?" He asked.

The young man nodded and motioned toward a wall of old-fashioned wooden phone booths with accordion-style doors. "They're free, but we ask that you limit your time to five minutes if you see anybody waiting to use one after you."

Bruce nodded his thanks. Not a single booth was occupied. He entered the cubicle and slid the door shut. As he dialed the number, he felt his heart begin to pound. What if Gordon turned him in?

The phone rang once.

Bruce drew a deep breath.

It rang again and Gordon picked up. "Hello?"

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, and no sound came out.

"Hello, is anyone there?"

The stresses of the last week… Jeremiah's smugness, Dick's betrayal, the escape, the weather, the cars, the fact that he was currently sitting in castoff clothing in a homeless shelter… it was all too much for him. If he was going to speak now, he knew he was going to cry, and he couldn't do that while he was talking to Jim. Jim knew Batman and Batman didn't cry.

"Must be a wrong number," Bruce heard him say.

Another second, he realized, and Gordon would disconnect.

"Hello?"

"Jimmmmmmm?" Bruce managed to force the syllable out.

"Bruce? Is that you?"

He couldn't answer. He was too busy fighting for self-control. Calling had been a mistake anyway. What was Jim going to do besides urge him to give himself up?

"Bruce," Gordon's voice rang with authority. "Bruce, if that _is_ you, don't hang up the phone. Are you listening?"

Silence.

"Bruce. I'm right here. I'll stay on this phone line as long as you need me to. If we get disconnected call me back. But I need to know that you're there. Are you listening?"

He hesitated. "Y-yes."

"Good," Gordon rumbled. "I'd hate to think I was talking to myself."

* * *

Jim pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and pantomimed writing on the table surface.

Dick nodded his comprehension, dashed into the den and returned with a few sheets of blank printer paper. Gordon immediately grabbed one and started scribbling.

"I can be there in twenty minutes," Gordon was saying. "Stay with me. Don't hang up. I'm on my way."

Dick looked at the sheet. Gordon had scrawled 'Martha's Place' on it. The young man bit his lip. Bruce was at a homeless shelter? He picked up another pen and wrote: _does he need anything?_

Gordon shook his head. _I'll handle it_, he wrote back. _They'll be watching you more carefully._ He frowned then. _Better get out a change of clothes for him. And a coat._

Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. "They're probably watching your car too, Sir." He slid two keys off of the ring and placed them on the table. "There's a silver-blue Accord in spot number 47," he said. "Tinted windows. It's not registered under my name.

"Babs," he added, as he stepped into the bedroom, "call Enzo's and tell them we'll take the pizza to go and that I'll be coming to pick it up." He selected a loose-fitting pair of slacks with an elastic waistband and a Gotham Knights Sweatshirt. "If our phone's being monitored, let's give them something to listen to and someone to tail." He added a pair of tennis socks to his armload. "Then," he grinned, "call Dinah. Tell her you need to go over there tonight, whatever. You're fed up with the way I've been at Arkham every night…"

"You don't want to get me started on that subject," Barbara said with an answering smile. "You might not like where it ends up."

Dick sobered. "Sorry. You've really been great about this the past year. I know I've—"

She put her finger to his lips. "We've been over this. And if," she glanced at her father, who was holding the cell phone wedged between ear and shoulder as he rummaged in the fridge. He had four slices of bread lined up on the counter in preparation for sandwiches. "If I were in your shoes, I'd be doing the same thing and I _wouldn't_ think twice about it. So, I'll go to Dinah's and…"

"And once you're there, use her JLA transporter to get to your new office. We're going to need you to coordinate."

He dropped the clothes on a chair in the living room, opened the coat closet and scrutinized its contents. He'd deliberately bought the trench coat a couple of sizes too large so that he'd be able to wear a bulky sweater under it if he so chose. It should fit Bruce. Dick grabbed a knitted cap from the upper shelf, jammed it into the coat pocket, and draped the coat over the chair with the other items, making sure Gordon noticed.

"What did you have in mind?" Barbara asked. "It'll take a bit of time to get to Dinah's at this hour, and I can do a lot from my laptop without bothering with the Karver IV in the cave."

Dick waited until Gordon took the sandwiches and keys and picked up the coat. As the front door closed behind him, Dick drew a deep breath. "Someone's got to keep an eye on police band. There is no way in Hell that I'm going to force Bruce back to Arkham, no matter what Morgenstern thinks is best. I'm… hoping he'll decide to go back on his own. But no matter what happens, the cops can't find him in a car with your dad."

Barbara nodded. "I can link to the systems in the caves from here," she said. "It'll just take me a minute or two to set up. There's no need to involve Dinah at this point." She glanced sharply at him. "You're not going to patrol tonight, are you?"

"How?" Dick asked. "If I go out in the Bat-suit, I'll have every cop in the city stopping me just in case it's Bruce under the cowl. And as Nightwing, they'll assume I'll lead them to Bruce so they'll spend the night trying to tail me and I'll waste the night giving them the slip. No, patrolling is pretty much off for the evening."

"So…"

"So, I'll pick up the pizza and—"

"You'll bring it back here before you do anything else." She blinked innocently at him. "I'm hungry, okay?"

Dick sighed. "I'll bring back three quarters of it before I do anything else. Then, I'm going to do exactly what any good son is expected to do when his poor sick father walks out of the hospital practically under the noses of the administrator and staff." He grabbed a jacket out of the coat closet. "I'm going to yell at the director of the institution."

Barbara shook her head, but she was smiling as she did so. "Dick… you know it's not his faul…" She stopped herself. "Well it is, but he's…" _a tin-plated dictator with delusions of godhood_, she finished mentally. "You can't just…" _Oh, why the Hell not?_ She sighed. "Just don't do anything that'll land you in Blackgate, okay?"

He zipped up the jacket. "Don't worry. And besides, Babs, Jeremiah would be the first one to agree: it's not healthy to keep things bottled up inside. Believe me, this is going to be therapeutic."

On his way out the door, he added "But see if Dinah and Helena can keep an eye on the city tonight."

* * *

Driving toward the shelter, Gordon tried to be optimistic. Bruce had reached out, had called him. That had to be an improvement. It was… but it was also out of character. Gordon forced himself to face facts. There were changes in Bruce… serious ones. They weren't necessarily unwelcome, but they _were_ disconcerting. Gordon didn't know what to expect anymore.

"I'm about ten minutes away," he said into the speaker. "Still with me?"

"Yes."

The monosyllabic answers were nothing new. The ill-concealed note of panic, on the other hand…

"Bruce," Gordon hesitated. "Son. Listen to me. I…" His mind went blank. What was he supposed to say next? He couldn't promise that everything was going to be all right; he knew better than that and so did Bruce. To imply otherwise would be an insult.

"Jim?"

"I'm here, Bruce," he said finally. "Just stay with me. I'm not going to bail out on you. Hold on, Son."

"Trying…"

Gordon smiled at that. "I know you are, Son. It won't be too much longer. I'm just driving past the park now. I'll be there in a few minutes."

There was no response save for ragged breathing.

"You are going to get through this, you know," Gordon said after a moment.

Another long pause. "How?"

Gordon sighed. "Right at the moment? I haven't got a clue. But… but I know you, Son. You'll find a way." He did know him, Gordon realized. Whatever was going on in Bruce's head, whatever had been stripped away from him, the man on the other end of the phone was still the same person who had faced Gotham at his side for well over a decade. His lips twitched. "You're stubborn that way."

"That's… not always a good thing."

Was there a hint of amusement in his voice? Gordon might be imagining things. But Bruce _had_ just uttered a complete sentence.

"You're not going to get an argument from me on that score," he said. "But it can be. And you know that, anyway." He spied a parking spot, and homed in on it.

"I know." Pause. "I made a mess of it. Everything. Didn't I?"

Gordon pulled into the vacant space. "Well, it's a bad situation," he admitted finally. "I don't honestly know how to salvage it, but we're going to try." He turned off the motor, pulled the key out of the ignition and reached behind him for the trench coat. "Believe me."

He pulled up the collar of his own coat. The temperature was expected to drop below freezing tonight. "Okay, Bruce. I'm on foot. I've got the shelter in view. Still with me?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now I haven't come this far to blow things at the last minute. I'm guessing you would've had to give them a false name to register?"

"No. They never asked," Bruce replied.

"Ah." He ignored the steps leading up to the entrance in favor of the ramp. A guard stood at the door, barring his path.

"Can I help you, Mister?"

Gordon nodded. "Hang on another second," he said into the mouthpiece.

He directed his attention to the guard. "Sorry to bother you." Gordon hesitated only a moment before telling the man that he had come to the shelter in response to a call from his son. A sharp intake of breath was the only intimation Gordon had that Bruce had heard him.

The guard stood aside at once to let him pass. "First door on your right's the dining room. The phones are along the far wall."

Gordon thanked him. "I'm right outside," he said as he faced the row of booths. "All you have to do is push the door open. I'm here."

For a moment there was no response. Then, slowly, a door slid open and Bruce stared out at him. One hand clutched the phone cord as though it were a lifeline.

Gordon turned off the cell phone with a sigh of relief. "I brought your coat, Son," he said, handing it to him. "You can let go, now," he added.

It took Bruce a moment to realize that he was still holding on to the phone. He relinquished his grip with more than a little embarrassment.

Gordon clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here," he said.

* * *

The rain had turned to light drizzle by the time they left the shelter. Neither man spoke as they made their way back to the car. Bruce moved like an automaton, his hat jammed nearly to his eyebrows, his head down and his collar up against the elements. It wasn't until Jim closed the passenger door behind him and went around the front of the Accord that Bruce slowly doubled over and began to shake.

The driver-side door opened and shut. Gordon reached over and rested a hand gently on the younger man's shoulder blade. "It's alright, Son," he said awkwardly. He thought back to another night, years earlier, when their positions had been reversed and it had been Bruce helping _him_ regain control after Joker had… "It's okay," he said, consciously repeating what Bruce—Batman had told him then. "It's okay. Let it come."

Bruce drew a deep shuddering breath, held it for a moment, and exhaled. "I'm… sorry," he said hoarsely. "C-can I just have a minute?"

"Take all the time you need, Son." The police had no reason to suspect this vehicle. They were as safe here as they were anywhere else in the city.

The next five minutes felt like an eternity as Gordon watched Bruce struggle to regain his composure. The former police commissioner longed to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that it might be better to let it all out, but he refrained. At this moment, he realized, the only thing Bruce had left was his self-control. Gordon wasn't about to tell him that it wasn't important.

Finally, Bruce sat up, fastened his seatbelt, and nodded slightly.

Gordon turned on the motor. A moment later, they drove off.

* * *

At first, Bruce didn't pay much attention to the route that they were taking. They were going south—away from Arkham; that was enough. The hum of the car engine, the whir of the heater, the slight tug of inertia pushing him back and pulling him forward as the vehicle sped up or slowed down, all worked in concert to calm him. It wasn't until Gordon took the right fork toward the Brown Bridge that Bruce realized that they weren't headed for Tricorner.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Gordon changed lanes, pulled ahead of two other drivers and changed back. "That's up to you."

Up to him. That phrase should have been music to his ears, and yet… "To me?"

Jim nodded. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy driving around at night. It helps me clear my head." He snorted. "Of course, that's not going to be news to you, considering. One thing's for sure: there's no way I'm going to tell you that you have to go back to the Asylum. So. I have two other ideas for you. Neither of them are ideal, but maybe after hearing them, you'll either decide that one of them can work for you, or you'll come up with something better."

Bruce waited a moment to see if Jim was going to elaborate further. "I'm listening," he said finally.

Gordon turned off the heater. "All right. I can hide you. It's illegal as Hell, but I can do it at least short-term. Here's the problem, though. My house, and this was true long before Barbara moved out of it, has become an unofficial place for GCPD officers to drop by and chat about the good old days. I have to tell you that a lot of my regulars are top-rated detectives. Now, I think that it would look mighty suspicious if I suddenly told them I wanted my privacy, right about the time you escaped Arkham."

Bruce nodded. Jim had a point.

"Another thing: right now, the police are keeping a close eye on Dick's activities. Only stands to reason they'd expect him to be helping you. That buys us time, but sooner or later they're going to remember he's not the only ally you've got. Which means that sooner or later, they'll start looking at me. I do have one place in my house that might escape notice in the event of a search warrant: Under the stairs going down to my basement, there's a closet. I've got a bunch of old cardboard boxes piled up in there. Don't ask me what's in them—there are memories in there that date clear back to my first marriage and move on forward from there." He laughed. "When I moved to Metropolis, I put everything in storage, and when I moved back I shoved it all under there. One day I'll go through it, I guess.

"Anyway, if you push aside some of the boxes, there's a small door that leads to a crawl space. If you were to go in there and fasten a latch so it would lock from the inside, an investigative team might buy that it was painted shut. Problem is, while there were people around, you'd have to be very careful about moving around in there. And I don't know about how much light you could have. If there are any chinks in those walls, it's possible that someone could spot it leaking out. You'd have enough room in there to sit up or lie down comfortably, but not to stand." He waited for his words to sink in. "It won't be a picnic, I'll admit. However, you do know that sooner or later the media's going to have another top story to follow, and the furor over your escape will fade. Once that happens, we _might _be able to set you up with an assumed ID so that you can stay on in Gotham. Before that, they'll be looking for you too closely. I don't know if you're up to maintaining a cover ID at present."

Bruce nodded, but his head was spinning. It wouldn't be Arkham… but it would still be a form of imprisonment; one that would be, in its own way, far more onerous than that which he had endured to date. True, it would be a prison entered by choice, and it would be for his own safety, but he hadn't left one cell only to enter another.

_Really? And what do you think might have happened had Dick agreed to break you out? Were you expecting to retire to the manor and compose your memoirs?_

Gordon was right on another score, too. Bruce was currently in no shape to keep up a new alter ego. His instincts were blunted from months of disuse. And if he were challenged, he doubted he'd be able to make good another escape. True, he'd taken the guards by surprise when he'd broken out of Arkham this time, but the effort he'd expended in doing so had only driven home to him the knowledge that he wasn't likely to win a fight if his opponent was ready for an attack.

"And the other suggestion?" He forced the words out.

"We crossed the bridge a couple of minutes back," Gordon said. "If I continue on to the highway, in about five minutes, right before the interstate, we're going to come to a rest area. There's a Roxxon station attached to a convenience store of some kind and a Burger Barn. When we get there, I'm going to fill up with gas, and I'll go and take my time in the convenience store, browsing the aisles. Meanwhile, if you look in the back seat, you'll find a knapsack. There's a change of clothes, two sandwiches, and a bottle of water. Check the glove compartment for an envelope with six hundred in cash. If I could afford more it would be in there. Maybe you'll stand a better chance outside the city."

Bruce chewed the inside of his lip. _Leave Gotham? And go where, exactly?_ He'd have no identification, supplies for a few days at most… Hadn't the JLA had an emergency assistance program for times like this…?

_Yes. YOU funded it. Before you resigned from the League, of course._

Who was he kidding? The JLA had disbanded in any case. Even if they'd reformed during his time in Arkham, he wasn't a part of it anymore. He wasn't entitled to any of the benefits of League membership.And without him funding the emergency assistance program, IF the League existed—which was by no means certain—the program was probably a thing of the past.

He closed his eyes. He'd been right the first time: he'd made a mess of things. "I could go back." His voice was scarcely louder than a whisper.

Gordon took his eyes off the road long enough to look at him. "You could."

"Should I?" He demanded. "Is that the right decision?"

"For who?" Gordon shot back. "For me? I don't like seeing you caged up like some… some blasted animal. That's a hell of a thing to ask me to go along with, almost as bad as asking me to be your jailer. And leaving you by the side of the road with a knapsack and a wad of cash isn't any better. So, in the sense that if you go back to Arkham, at least it lets _me_ off the hook, and lets your son go pick up a pizza without noticing he's being followed by a plain wrapper, yes that's the right decision."

Bruce blinked, confused. Plain… _wrapper_? He was more out of practice than he'd realized. It took him a moment to recall that the term was CB slang for an unmarked car.

Gordon sighed. "The thing is, Bruce? This isn't about what's best for me." The exit for the rest stop was fast approaching. Jim took it.

"This," he continued, "is about what's best for _you_. If going back means that you'll let that place beat you, if it means I'm going to see you lying practically catatonic on that bed, day after day, then no, Bruce. That is NOT the right decision."

He drove into the rest station area. As he'd described it, there was a gas station attached to a convenience store. The fast-food restaurant was next door. Adjacent to it, was a long corridor sheltered by a peaked roof. A sign announced that it led to public restrooms.

Gordon pulled up next to the gas pump and parked the car. "Now," he said, "I'm going to fill up, like I said, and I'll give you some time to think things over. Did you want me to pick you up something to eat?"

Bruce thought for a moment. "Soup," he said. "Or macaroni and cheese. A salad, even. Just please get something that isn't finger food."

Gordon nodded. "No problem," he said as he slid his card into the reader.

When he emerged from the convenience store ten minutes later, a slab of microwaved lasagna in a brown paper bag, the car was empty. Bruce was gone.

* * *

"What," Dick demanded, "do you mean… gone?"

The young man looked ready to lunge across the desk. Not for the first time, Jeremiah Arkham debated calling in security. "Mr. Grayson," he snapped, "I'm going to have to ask you to take a seat and calm down."

Dick sat down for all of thirty seconds. Then he sprang up again. "I will be calm when I know that he's safe," he said. "Meanwhile I want to know how he got past all of the extra precautions that you… you _rhapsodized _over in last week's _Herald_."

Arkham coughed. "I must say, Mr. Grayson, that I'm finding your current attitude surprising. One might almost think that you preferred him confined here."

"It is thirty-three degrees outside right now, and expected to plunge to twenty-seven overnight! You're damned right he's better off in here!" He slammed his hand down on the desk so hard Jeremiah was sure he heard wood crack. "Do you want to double-check your camera grid to remind you of what he was wearing?"

"Really," Jeremiah scoffed, "I don't see how you can blame us for that. After all, it's not like we chose to let him outside dressed like that. He did so of his own free will…"

Dick discovered that he didn't need the cowl to use the Bat-voice. "I… don't… _care_! Bruce was remanded here. That means that you people are responsible for him. And if _anything_ happens to him while he's under your care, then you are going to _wish_ Reagan shut this place down with the other private asylums back in the 80s. Because, Dr. Arkham, if something happens to Bruce, I am going to call for a full-scale investigation into how this place is run. I think we all know that Bruce isn't the only patient here who's been slapped around a bit. Then there's the over-prescription of sedatives, the…"

"Are _you_ actually attacking _us_ for condoning excessive violence, _Nightwing_?"

"You only condone it when it's your staff that perpetuates it!"

"Oh, so you're not upset that some of the guards are a bit enthusiastic, you're upset that we frown on vigilante activities?"

Dick actually laughed at that. "Do you really think I care what you think of me? Hell, if you can actually rehabilitate Joker, I don't care if you do it by getting him to play 'pin-the-dynamite-on-the-Wingster'. But if you can't cure him, at least keep him locked up like you're paid to, so people like me _don't_ have to step in.

"The thing is," Dick said softly, "you _were_ making some headway with Bruce. You got him from not caring where he was to realizing he wanted out. But did it never occur to you that once he wanted to leave, he was going to do everything he could to do so?"

Jeremiah frowned. "And just how did you propose we stop him? He's Batman, for pity's sake!"

"What would your excuse be if you let your kid loose with a baseball bat in the crystal department at Killinger's and he started swinging the thing? 'Boys will be boys?'" Dick smiled unpleasantly.

"The truth, Dr. Arkham? It doesn't matter how much you try to wiggle out of this." He realized that his phrasing was somewhat familiar. So did Jeremiah. "How often you twist my words and try to get me on the defensive. The fact of the matter is that while I might be empowered to make certain decisions on Bruce's behalf, you and your institution _are_ responsible for him. And he walked out on _your_ watch. So if anything happens to him, I will sue this institution for everything it's worth." He turned as if to go, then spun back.

"You're not only the director of this place, you're the owner, right? Sole proprietor?" His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Can you say 'unlimited liability'?"

The phone rang then, its harsh jangling interrupting the younger man's tirade. Jeremiah seized the unexpected reprieve and picked up the receiver.

* * *

Gordon looked at the empty front seat with some dismay. He couldn't exactly blame Bruce for cutting and running. He might well have done the same thing given the circumstances, but even so, he wasn't enjoying the prospect of telling the rest of the family. His eyes widened. The knapsack was still in the back seat, untouched. Hesitantly, Gordon opened the glove compartment. The envelope was still there, its funds undisturbed. The former commissioner shook his head. Pride was one thing but this…

…Bruce emerged from the direction of the restrooms and made his way quickly back to the car. "I'd thought to be back before you," he said before Gordon could utter a word. "Thanks for not driving off."

Jim stifled the urge to yell. Now that he knew Bruce was all right, he had a sudden mad urge to throttle the man. "Don't scare me like that, again," he snapped. "Get in." He thrust the bag at Bruce. "This is for you."

"Thanks," Bruce said, ducking into the car. He drew a deep breath. "I've thought it over."

"You should eat that before it gets cold."

"I will." He took another breath as he worked the staple carefully loose from the paper bag. "I have to go back."

Gordon paused. "Are you sure?"

Bruce shook his head. "No." He removed the plastic lid from the entrée and dug in with the plastic cutlery. "How can I be? But I," he took a bite of the lasagna. His eyes widened. It was _good_. Probably oily like anything, but good. "I think my leaving Arkham might have been… premature." He paused. "It's not like before, when I," he thought carefully, choosing his words. "When I thought I deserved to be there. But I think that right now, it might be where I," he bit his lip, "where I need to be."

Gordon said nothing.

Bruce sighed. "I forgot, you know."

"Forgot?"

"I've begun to notice," he explained, "that when I'm in a situation not of my choosing, I tend to… twist things until it looks as though it came about through my own volition. So when Arkham threatened to prevent you from visiting me…"

This was news to Jim. "He _what_?" _Oh, that smug, supercilious __**bastard!**_

"He threatened to stop the visits if I was unwilling to work with the medical staff. So when Dick came that night I tried to… dissuade him from returning." He took another forkful of lasagna. "If it was my own idea, then it made the situation bearable."

He took another few bites before he spoke again. "I… the way I was when I was transferred from the hospital wasn't an… act. Not an intentional one. But I think that… being aware that I was going to Arkham, something in me made me want it to be by my own choice. What Elliot did gave me a reason not to fight it. So that on some level… I could believe that I was in that place because I wanted to be."

"Now you've got me worried," Gordon admitted. "I was all set to swear that you weren't insane, but after that last bit…"

Bruce smiled at that. "I'm still working some things through," he said. "But I think that because I—in my own mind, at least—came to Arkham voluntarily, it didn't really occur to me that I couldn't _leave_ voluntarily."

Gordon blinked. "So you thought the locks on the door were just for show?"

"As you pointed out not so long ago," Bruce said, "I wasn't thinking." He swallowed the last bite of lasagna. "I…" he hesitated. "My current doctor took a leave of absence. Jeremiah took over for him…"

"Hmmmph," Gordon sniffed. "I don't blame you for running then."

The smile flashed again briefly. "He reminded me of the true state of affairs. I… disliked it." He sobered. "When I go back…" he squared his shoulders. "Is it a further indication of insanity that I'd almost rather face the Joker?"

Gordon squeezed his forearm. "Not as long as it's 'almost'. Can you manage?"

Bruce nodded. "I'll have to."

"For what it's worth," Gordon said, "I think what you said before about needing to make everything seem like it was your idea makes a lot of sense. Question, though: can you somehow twist things around so that you can put up with Jeremiah until your regular doctor gets back?"

Silence.

Gordon turned on the motor. "You'll probably have to face him at least once before another sanity hearing can be convened. Maybe you can use this time to prepare."

Bruce seemed to be mulling over his words. "Maybe. Jim?"

"Mmmmmhm?"

"Do we… do I have to go right now? I mean… could we… stop somewhere first?"

Gordon glanced at him. "Where did you have in mind?"

"The cemetery," Bruce said after a moment's hesitation. "I never really said 'goodbye'."

They weren't clear of the lot yet. Gordon pulled the car into a vacant spot, turned off the motor, and reached across to pat the younger man's shoulder. "You've… never been good at that, have you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I don't know if we can, Son. They're watching the manor, you know."

Bruce nodded miserably. "I… understand."

Gordon thought for a moment. "Stay here. Maybe…" He did not finish the sentence. He got out of the car and walked back toward the convenience store. Bruce saw him take the cell phone out of his pocket. He settled back to wait.

About ten minutes later, Jim returned. "I didn't want to get your hopes up in case Commissioner Sawyer didn't go for this, but she's willing," he said. "She's agreed to what you're asking..."

Bruce blinked as a real smile began to spread across his face.

"But…" Gordon added.

"But?"

"The police will be there. You can take as long as you need, but when you're finished, you go back with them. Technically, you'll be in police custody from the moment you set foot on the Manor grounds, but they won't step in until you're ready to leave." Gordon sighed. "Which basically means that if you change your mind about going back, from here on in, you're going to have to give me the slip and make it look convincing."

Or Jim would be facing charges for helping him. Bruce nodded. "Alright. Call her back. Tell her I agree." Jim started to dial the number. "Wait. Jim?" Bruce hesitated. "Tell her… thanks."

* * *

Bruce didn't speak again until they were nearly over the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge.

"Were you at Alfred's funeral?"

Gordon nodded soberly.

"I should have been there." Bruce sighed. "Dick gave the eulogy, I take it?"

"That's right."

"What did he say?"

Gordon tried to remember the specifics. He could see the faces of the mourners, describe the weather, visualize where everyone had been standing, but the words of the eulogy eluded him. "You'll have to ask him for the details yourself," he admitted. "It wasn't so much that he said anything profound, but the way he gave it over…"

Bruce understood perfectly. "It shouldn't have fallen on him in the first place."

"If it helps, he told me he was glad you were spared that duty."

"We both should have been. For years to come."

"I know." He shot a quick look at the man seated next to him. "How are you holding up?"

"Managing," Bruce replied. He forced himself to add: "so far."

"Mmmm," Gordon agreed. "I can't imagine you've had an easy day of it."

The understatement nearly drew a chuckle. Bruce checked himself. It wasn't funny. "Joker did say once that we were all one bad day away from being him."

This time, Gordon's look was murderous. "And you believe him?"

"No…"

"You're damned right, 'no'! Get _that_ idea out of your head and pronto. We both remember that night. And neither of us cracked."

"We came close, though."

"Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades." He sighed. "_Joker_ might have cracked after one bad day, but I've got a feeling that whatever was going on with him started well before that." He turned briefly toward Bruce again, and then went back to the road. He didn't want to miss the turnoff for the manor.

"If you need any further proof," he added, "think about exactly what effect your own… bad days had on you. They may have gotten you into that suit. One of them got you into Arkham. But when all's said and done, you never felt the need to detonate a Smilex bomb in a grade school… or put fear toxin in the drinking water, or any of a million and one other sick schemes. Sure, there are reasons you ended up in Arkham—ninety per cent of the country needs some sort of therapy. But if you think Joker's some sort of authority on sanity…"

"…I'd have to be insane?" The glint of humor was back in his voice.

"Confused," Gordon corrected. "Confused. And don't go trying to trick me into saying differently." He slowed to five miles per hour.

"Well, here we are, Bruce," he said. The gates closest to the estate cemetery were locked. Bruce got out of the car, strode up to one of the stone gargoyles that guarded the gate and slid his fingers along its pedestal. It only took him a moment to locate the hidden catch and slide a panel back. Quickly, he retrieved the iron key and twisted it in the lock. He pulled the door open, then returned to the car. Jim proceeded along the gravel path until the road widened, allowing room for parking. He pulled up alongside the concrete boundary and stopped the car.

For a moment, Bruce hesitated. Then, he opened the door, slowly got out, and began walking toward the gravesites. Gordon followed some distance behind.

* * *

Jim leaned heavily against the wrought-iron fence as he watched the younger man kneel before the double grave that marked Thomas and Martha Wayne's final resting place. Jim imagined that he was talking to them, although he couldn't hear a word.

About ten minutes later, Bruce arose, walked to the headstone and brushed his fingers reverently over it. Then, shoulders slumping, he made his way several feet over, to where two newer granite markers stood. He spent several minutes by Jason's. Then, Gordon saw him move slowly to the last grave…

* * *

"Dispatch, this is Bravo-three-three-oh-two. We have a slight situation here."

"Copy, 3302. Go ahead."

"Dispatch, we're 10-49 to Wayne Manor. We've got a 10-12, Juvenile in the unit unwilling to disembark. Claims to have a past history with the pickup. Instructions on how to proceed?"

"3302, procedures dictate that no observer may accompany an officer while transporting or booking a prisoner, over?"

"Copy, Dispatch. Just want to point out that this unit has been assigned to back up the vehicle assigned to 10-16. Also, not sure it's wise to drop off a juvenile on the street at this hour of the night."

"Copy, 3302. 10-23."

Officer Dennis Lim shot a look behind him at the nervous teen. "Okay, we've just been ordered to stand by for instructions, Leroy," he translated. "We'll know in a minute."

The youth nodded. "If it weren't for him," he said, "I'd…" he grinned suddenly, "I'd probably still be sitting back here, but you'd have had cuffs on me and read me my rights first."

Lim's partner, Greg Giordano chuckled. "You turned your own life around, kid."

"Sure I did," Leroy replied. "But he was the first person who ever made me believe I could."

A burst of static intruded on the banter. "3302, this is Dispatch. Your Ride Along can go along for the ride."

Lim gestured for quiet behind him, and Leroy stifled the whoop of delight he'd been about to release. "10-4, Dispatch. Over and out." He turned back to Leroy. "Looks like you're going to see Batman, after all, kid."

* * *

"Hello, Old Friend," Bruce whispered. "I wish I could have come sooner. Circumstances dictated otherwise," he paused before continuing, "but then, I'm sure you already know that.

"I failed you. I realize that. I was too slow, too careless, too clumsy. I can be there for everybody… except the people who need me… who _I _need the most." His voice broke.

"You were right, Alfred. About everything. I let the mission consume me… wasted time… years… I know you wanted to see me… happy. I thought that later, after my work was com…plete…" tears were pouring down his cheeks and he made no effort to hold them back or brush them away. "And I told you that every time I ran past you into the cave. I couldn't wait to get into that costume and leave… leave…

"I was a fool. A blind… stupid… fool. You were right about everything, Alfred. I…"

Something seemed to wrap about his shoulders then. He half-turned, expecting to see Jim there, but… no, Jim was still standing against the fence. There was nobody nearby. It had to have been the wind.

"I know, Old Friend," he continued softly. "I made this mess. I need to put things right."

He gestured toward his parents' tombstone. "I almost hope they can't see what's happened to…" He buried his face in his hands. "Oh, G-d, Alfred. What they must think of me!"

"If they were half the people you seem to believe they were, Son," a voice broke into his thoughts, "I think they'd be damned proud of you."

Slowly, he half-turned. "Jim?"

"Still here." With some difficulty, he sat down next to Bruce on the cold ground.

Bruce shook his head. "You shouldn't be…"

"Ahhh… You'll help me up, afterwards." He rested a hand on the younger man's forearm. "It's harder bending over you, anyway. Here." He fumbled in his pocket and came up with a small package of tissues.

Bruce accepted one with a mumbled thank you. "I wish I could know that for sure," he said. "That they'd be proud."

Gordon said nothing.

"Sometimes, when I dream," he admitted, "I see them telling me… that I'm wasting my life, and I wonder…"

"What were they like?" Gordon interrupted.

Bruce thought for a moment. "My father was a fair man," he said slowly. "Strict, but fair. He was impossible to fool, but sometimes, he'd allow you to think otherwise.

"He'd go out of his way to find work for anybody who approached him to ask for a job. And if they needed some… assistance that," he broke off for a moment, thinking. "I can give you an example. At WE, medical benefits only kick in after an employee has worked for the company for three months. That's in the standard employment contract. It's understood. But there were times when a new employee would ask whether anything could be done sooner. Invariably, my father gave in. One time, I can remember visiting him at work, when somebody—from accounting, I suppose—came into the office demanding to know why Father had authorized the payment. After all, legally there was no requirement to do so.

"Father's reply was that there was a time to do what was legal… and a time to do what was _right_."

Gordon smiled gently. "You can tell me that story and yet, you honestly think he wouldn't approve of your activities?"

Bruce shook his head. "It's different…"

"It's a difference of degree, only." He smiled. "Of course he'd be worried. G-d knows I was when I found out what Barbara was up to. And I don't doubt you went through something similar with Dick at one point or another. Are you going to sit there and tell me that you're ashamed of the way he's chosen to live his life? Some of his choices may have been disappointing to you, but can you honestly tell me that there's been a single day since he came to you that you considered him a disgrace?"

Thunderstruck, Bruce turned to face him. "I…" Words deserted him. "I…" He shook his head. There had been times when he'd considered Dick to be headstrong, emotional, on occasion, even foolish. But… a disgrace? _Never_.

"Then why do you think for one moment that they'd believe something like that about you?"

Bruce had no answer. He could shrug off emotional arguments, but Gordon was appealing to his logic. There was no way to _know_ how his parents would react… but Jim's argument was sound. Jim… was right. He was right. Bruce exhaled slowly, then gulped in a fresh breath of air. He got to his feet and extended a hand to help Jim up. Jim took it.

"You… ah… might want to wash up before you go," Jim suggested.

It took a moment for Bruce to understand. Of course. He shouldn't look as though he'd been crying when he arrived at… at Arkham. He'd managed to forget about Arkham for a little while, at least.

Without another word, he trotted toward the shed where various tools were stored. There was a faucet set in its outer wall. Bruce turned it on and splashed cold water on his face. A breeze started up, making his exposed skin tingle where the water touched it. He gulped in another deep breath of fresh air. This might be the last time he'd be out at night for awhile—he might as well try to take it in as fully as possible.

When he turned around, he could see several officers standing just inside the cemetery gates. How long had they been waiting? It didn't matter. He locked eyes with one officer and nodded slightly. He was ready.

Cautiously, the group approached him. Bruce raised his hands. He'd agreed to this. He wasn't going to resist. He…

"Sergeant Robbins, GCPD. We're parked just outside the gate," one of them said. "Did you need some more time?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I'm ready." He would not look back. The police had kept up their end of the agreement. He was going to keep his. He tensed, waiting for the handcuffs.

"Let's go, then."

Bruce blinked.

Robbins gestured toward the car. "Unless you do need another minute…?"

Understanding dawned. Bruce smiled slowly as he straightened his stance. "I'm ready," he said again, as he followed the officer, head held high. The others waited until he had passed before they closed ranks behind him.

* * *

"Well?" Jeremiah demanded for the fourteenth time, "why haven't we received the second telephone call?"

"It'll come," Dick said. It had been almost two hours since Commissioner Sawyer had called to advise them that Bruce was going to give himself up. Arkham was sure it was a ploy.

"Mr. Grayson, I don't know whether you're attempting to buy him time, or whether you really _are_ that naïve, but it should be clear to any thinking individual that he's manipulated Gordon in order to make good his getaway."

"From what I was told when the police paid me a visit this afternoon, Bruce had _already_ 'made good his getaway'. Why would he contact Gordon in the first place, if not to try to negotiate?"

Arkham sniffed. "Considering that Mr. Wayne was committed to this institution after a hearing found him to be mentally incompetent, I'm not entirely sure that you or I can fathom what was going through his mind at the time."

_I must not assault people while I'm in civvies, no matter how much they deserve it,_ Dick thought. _I must not assault people while I'm in civvies, no matter how much they deserve it._ Bruce was going to need him after this. Assuming Bruce was sincere about… Dick ruthlessly suppressed that thought. Bruce was coming back. He wouldn't have called Gordon otherwise.

"I know my father, Doctor Arkham," Dick growled. "And I know I'm right about why he'd call James Gordon."

Any response that Jeremiah might have made to that was cut off as the office door opened, and a security guard ushered in a tall blonde woman in a neatly tailored suit. "I came as soon as I heard," she said, giving Dick a hard stare. She extended her hand to the asylum director. "Rachel Greene, Dr. Arkham. I'm Mr. Wayne's attorney. I don't believe we've met."

Arkham shook her hand quickly, as though it was some sort of unpleasant duty. "Charmed, Ms. Greene. I'm sorry you had to come out here at this hour of the night."

Rachel shook her head, still glowering at Dick. "I started driving as soon as I _heard_."

All at once Dick realized that he should have notified her the instant that he'd found out about Bruce's escape. Everything had been happening so quickly that…

The phone rang again and Jeremiah reached for it. "Arkham. I see." His eyebrows shot up. "Well! That _is_ good news. So then, will Mr. Wayne be returned forthwith or," his lip curled sardonically, "would you perchance like to take him out for ice cream on his way back?"

Rachel brought her stiletto heel down firmly on Dick's cross-trainer. It was probably the only thing that held the young man in check. Bruce had lasted more than a week under this guy? Incredible.

Jeremiah's sneer vanished abruptly. "Now wait just one minute…!"

* * *

Bruce sat in the back seat of the squad car. He could see the police officers standing around outside. One officer was in a different car, probably alerting Central that they had Batman in custody. The others were talking with Jim. Bruce noticed that one of them was keeping an eye on the squad car at all times. The officer wasn't being obvious about it, and Bruce didn't mind. He'd been expecting to be more closely observed.

His eyes narrowed. There was a teen in neat civilian attire standing with the blueshirts. There was something familiar about him. Bruce watched as the youth leaned forward to ask a question. After a moment, the officer nodded and accompanied the young man to the car. He opened the front passenger door and the boy climbed in. "Mr. Wayne?" He asked. Then he corrected himself. "Batman?"

Bruce nodded an acknowledgement. "These days, I'll answer to either."

The boy grinned.

Bruce waited. After a moment, he asked "Do I… know you?"

"You did," the boy replied. "Mind you, it was a few years ago so I'm not really surprised you don't remember. I'm Leroy. Leroy Shood? Grant Park P.S. ring any bells?"

Yes, it did indeed. "The IHAD program," Bruce nodded. "You'd be in your junior year, now?"

"Senior, actually," Leroy said. "I did my bit—I'm graduating high school in June. You gonna do yours?" He looked away, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like…"

Bruce had forgotten about that agreement. He'd have to mention it to Dick. "Your post-secondary education will be paid for," he nodded. "How have you been?"

"Good!" Leroy beamed. "I mean, living in the projects isn't a picnic, but my mom got her act together, and she's working part-time now. I aced the SAT last year… still waiting to hear from the places I applied to," he shrugged. "It's good."

The boy hesitated. "Can I ask you something?" Without waiting for an answer, he plunged onward. "The way you set things up for my friends and me, it was like first you scared the crap out of us and then you gave a whole new set of options. You always work that way? Sorta 'good-cop, bad-cop' in the same package?"

Bruce wasn't sure he'd heard it phrased that way before. His lips twitched. "Not always," he admitted. "But often. Usually when it involves people like you and your friends."

"People running with the wrong crowd," Leroy nodded, "but who haven't totally messed up their lives yet."

"I'm not sure it's possible to 'totally mess up,'" Bruce countered. "But there are certain lines which, once crossed, make it more difficult to turn around." He paused. "Did that satisfy your curiosity?"

Leroy nodded again. "Just looking for pointers. See, I want to go into social work. I think I'd probably do well working with kids like me… the ones everyone thinks don't have a chance. One day, someone's gonna say something like that to my face, and after I finish laughing at them, I'll tell them that a few years ago, I was saying exactly the same thing, and if I can make it out of the projects, so can they." His dreamy smile faded. "But sometimes, I think I might need to… scare them a little. Not so much they'll run away but enough so they know they can't just… drift. I was wondering how to know how hard to push."

"Over time," Bruce said slowly, "you develop an instinct for it. I'm not sure I can explain further… here."

"Oh," Leroy said, realizing. "Right. Sorry. Look, when you get out… would it be okay if maybe we met a few times? I'm trying to see the problem from all sides. I know what it's like growing up in a high-crime neighborhood. I signed up for the Ride-Along program to try to see what it's like being a cop and having to patrol one. I'm gonna network with teachers, probation officers, you name it. But you've _got_ to have another perspective, right?"

The driver-side door opened before Bruce could answer, and Gordon stuck his head in. "What's your favorite flavor?" He demanded, a broad grin creasing his features.

"Strawberry," Leroy replied instantly, as Bruce blinked.

Gordon turned to him. "How about you?"

"What?"

"Bruce," Gordon said, "I'm not asking you to spell methylenedioxymethamphetamine. What's your favorite flavor?" His grin grew wider. "Commissioner Sawyer's orders. We're stopping at Baskin-Robbins en route to the asylum. Apparently it was by Jeremiah's own suggestion."

Bruce somehow doubted that.

After a moment of silence, Gordon spoke again. "If you don't tell me, I'm getting you rum-raisin."

"I don't…"

"Bruce!" Gordon's tone was sharp. "As under-funded as the GCPD is, they have managed to find it in their budget to allow eleven single-scoop cones. You are getting one. For the purpose of this exercise, assume that the place we're stopping at is out of vanilla and chocolate. If they aren't, I will personally buy their remaining stock. Now… pick a damned flavor."

Leroy clapped a hand to his mouth.

Bruce sighed. "Jamoca almond fudge," he gritted through clenched teeth.

Gordon smiled at him. "Was that _really_ so hard?"

Bruce didn't answer.

* * *

It was nearly another two hours before the phone rang again. Arkham picked it up, spoke briefly into the receiver, and hung up. "It's about time," he snapped. "They've just brought him in. Normally I'd wait until tomorrow before seeing him, but I suppose you won't be satisfied unless you go down this moment to ensure that he's back safe and sound?"

Rae rose to her feet. Dick already had the door open.

"I'm sure," Rae stated, "that the papers are going to report that Mr. Wayne turned himself in? There'll be no reports of some big 'capture' on the news?"

Jeremiah sniffed. "Who knows _how_ the press might choose to do a story these days?" At Rae's furious expression, he looked away. "I will state that he returned of his own free will if I am approached for comment. Will that satisfy you?"

"For now," Rae replied as they stepped into the elevator. "I'll need to meet with my client to discuss the situation before I can be more definite than that."

The doors opened and Jeremiah led them down the corridor to the Intake unit. Bruce was seated on an examination table as one of the doctors removed a blood pressure cuff. Gordon was standing next to him and four GCPD officers were lounging nearby.

"Everything seems fine, from a physical standpoint," the doctor was saying.

Bruce was already on his feet as Dick sprang forward. "Bruce!" Immediately he clapped both hands on the older man's shoulders.

Bruce reciprocated the gestured. "Dick," he said softly. "It's alright. I'm back."

"I know," Dick said. "I can see that. I mean, I was wor—"

Bruce shook his head, tightening his grip on Dick's shoulders. "Dick," he said. "You're not listening. _I'm back_." He saw Dick's eyes grow wide with comprehension and he forced himself to continue. "We'll talk more later," his eyes sought Jeremiah's, "assuming it's permitted…?"

The asylum director was sputtering. "You think that you can just waltz in and out whenever you feel like it…?"

Bruce sighed. "Would an apology really help?" He asked. "If it would, I'm sorry." He met Arkham's gaze squarely. "I shouldn't have left. It won't happen again." He looked away. "There were issues that I needed to clarify."

"And you think that settles matters?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not really. I misinterpreted your attempt to help me as an attempt to break me. Naturally, I took exception." He made eye contact again. "I'm sure you're aware of my state of mind when I came here. I thought I'd recovered. There were…" he hesitated, then continued, "things said in one of our sessions, which led me to believe that my actual mental state was of minimal significance to you."

He felt Dick's shoulders tense. He shot him a warning look. Out the corner of his eye, he could see Rae's eyebrows come together. "Being out there tonight," he admitted, "told me that," for one instant, Dick saw him falter. Instinctively, he raised his eyes to Bruce's, smiled, and gave a slight nod of encouragement. Bruce steadied. "…That my self-assessment was premature." He made eye contact with Jeremiah, again. "Much as I would like it to be otherwise," he admitted, "I think that right now, this is where I need to be."

"Are you finished?" Jeremiah asked.

Bruce nodded.

"You were absent for over nine hours. You will spend the next nine days under total lockdown conditions. There will be no phone calls. There will be no visits. There will be no other privileges. Therapy will take place inside your cell. Am I being clear?"

Bruce swallowed. "Perfectly." He had known that there would be consequences. When Jim had left him in the car in the rest area, and he had chosen to return, he had also chosen to accept those consequences. It was only for nine days.

"Actually," Jim spoke up, "after _you_ okayed the ice cream run…"

"I did no such…"

"That's not how Maggie Sawyer told it," Jim countered. "Frankly, I don't see how you can hold him accountable for that. He was on the run for about seven hours. The rest of the time, he was in custody."

"Earlier than that," one of the officers countered. "The agreement was that he'd be in custody from the moment he set foot on the manor grounds. That happened a little after nine p.m. So, all-told, he was only a fugitive for five hours."

"That sounds about right," a second officer agreed. The other two nodded.

Rae grinned. "So then, Dr. Arkham, we're agreed? Five days? Not including Mr. Wayne's meetings with legal counsel, of course," she added primly. "I believe I have a three-hour block of time free tomorrow morning—today, actually—starting at around eleven-thirty," she looked at Bruce. "…If that's convenient for you?"

Bruce began to smile. "I… don't seem to have any other entries on my calendar," he said faintly.

"Good. I'll see you later, then." She eyed Jeremiah again. "Five days," she repeated. It wasn't a question.

Slowly, Dr. Arkham looked away. "Five… days," he agreed, practically forcing the words out. He waved to the nearby orderlies. "Gentlemen, if you'll return the patient to his quarters?"

Bruce sobered. His eyes met Dick's again. "I'll manage," he said. "I'll have to."

Dick bit down on the inside of his lip. "Sure, you will."

The orderlies started forward. Bruce pulled Dick closer. "I'll see you in five days," he whispered.

Dick hugged him back fiercely. "Damned right you will."

Then the orderlies moved in to hustle Bruce away.

* * *

Barbara was trying to look at the positives. From what she'd heard and seen over the asylum security feeds, Bruce was safe. He sounded better than he had in a very long time. And it looked as though Dick _wasn't_ going to be up on assault charges… But Bruce _was_ back in Arkham. As necessary as that circumstance might be, Barbara couldn't call it a good thing. And he was back under Jeremiah's thumb… She toyed with the idea of arranging for the IRS to audit Dr. Arkham. A few keystrokes would be all it would take. It would be that easy. She smiled. It was only November. She had a few months to make up her mind on that front. The young woman yawned as she reached for the last slice of cold pizza. She'd just finish this and call it a night…

…She almost choked on her second bite, as her laptop screen went blank. A moment later, a single horizontal line of text appeared across the center of the monitor:

_Have you written any quatrains recently, Oracle?_


	10. Chapter 10: Ragged Around the Edges

Thanks to Char, Debbie, Kalin, and Colleen for the beta! Special consultant: Joan Lackman. "I'm Alright" written by Angelo, Larry Gottlies, and Kim Richey. Recorded by Terri Clark on her _How I Feel_ CD (Mercury Nashville, 1998).

* * *

_So maybe I'm a little ragged around the edges  
And I've been keeping a little more to myself these days but_

_I'm alright  
Shot down but I'm still standing  
I'm alright  
A little banged up from the fall  
But I'm alright  
Still shaky from the landing  
I'm alright, after all_

_Angelo, Larry Gottlies, Kim Richey, "I'm Alright"_

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 10: Ragged Around the Edges**

"I know I should have contacted you sooner," Dick began, as the asylum door swung shut behind them. A gust of wind blew his hair back, and he pulled his gloves on quickly.

"That's right," Rae snapped. "You should have." She finished fastening the buttons on her coat as they walked down the gravel path to the parking lot. "I can't prepare any sort of a case for his release if you're going to withhold the tools I need to mount a credible argument. Damn it, Dick! Why didn't you let me know he was alert again?"

Dick winced. "Truth?" He asked. "Old habits die hard. I'm so used to not involving outsi…" he corrected himself. "People like y…" That wasn't much better. "Look. Bruce drummed it into me at an early age: anything that might have to do with Batman, even in the most peripheral way, does not get discussed outside the …caped contingent." That still sounded lame.

Rae gave him a hard stare. "Since when do YOU wear a cape, Nightwing?" She demanded. "Never mind. I don't need to hear the wrong answer to that question. Let's make it simple. If you want my help to get him out, you talk to me. It doesn't matter if I'm wearing a business suit, jeans and a sweatshirt, or Mary Marvel's minidress. Keep me in the loop or find yourself another lawyer."

"Got it." Dick nodded. "Can we set up a time to meet this week, then?"

"That would be a good start," she agreed. "I'll try to clear a block of time on my schedule. If he's come this far along…"

"He might be ready for that hearing now?" Dick felt his heart leap.

But Rae was shaking her head. "He _could _have been," she frowned, "if he hadn't taken that little jaunt a few hours ago. That's why you should have told me he was coherent again. I could have met with him sooner, maybe given him a better idea of where he stood. Now… now there's no judge who'd approve his release immediately following an escape attempt. Even if Arkham certified him cured today, it would take months before there'd be a chance at getting a hearing to go in his favor."

She stared at him. "Tell me you didn't know he was planning this."

"I didn't." Dick shook his head. "Two… no, three days ago, now, he asked me to break him out. He told me he couldn't do it on his own. I turned him down," he slumped. "I swear, I didn't think he'd try to escape without my help. He wouldn't have asked me in the first place if he'd thought then that he could…"

"Dick." He'd almost forgotten that Gordon was following behind them. "You can't second-guess yourself. You did the right thing."

"Absolutely," Rae agreed. "I hate to think of the headaches I'd have if I needed to defend _both_ of you."

She strode purposefully toward a green Lexus. Hand on the hood, she stopped. "One more thing. I can't stress how important this is. If you find something out, and you suspect that it might hurt our case, tell me. Surprises are all well and good, but they have their place, and that place is not in a courtroom when it's the petitioner springing them." She smiled then. "If _we_ do it, that's different."

That earned her a chuckle from both men.

"Well," she said, "good night, gentlemen. Dick, call me later. I'll be in my office before eight," she raised her eyes skyward, "pulling everything I've got to make sure that eleven-thirty session lasts three hours and still requires a follow-up."

Dick nodded. "Thank you for that. I mean it."

Rae inserted her car key into the lock and smiled. "I pride myself on being thorough. Call me."

They waited until she'd gotten in and shut the door behind her before both proceeded to their own vehicles.

* * *

By rights, Bruce knew, he should be miserable. He was back in Arkham, back in his cell, and—after a shower and a routine, if humiliating, personal search—back in his uniform. He had almost another month of Jeremiah to endure. And the sense of relief he'd felt when he'd told Jim that he had to return here should have been enough to put him to shame.

Oddly enough, it hadn't been.

When he'd decided to return, he had done so because, given his current situation, it had seemed like the right thing to do. It had been the right thing to do… but he hadn't realized it until he escaped. He'd needed to work that out for himself.

In the dark, his eyes opened wide. This… wasn't a defeat, or even a setback. He had some experience with those. This… this was suspiciously akin to the surge of exhilaration he'd felt in the past when he'd cleared some hurdle, mastered a new technique, or hit a new personal best.

This felt strangely like _progress_. A smile creased his face. It felt… good.

* * *

Barbara stared at the screen for a full minute before she replied. Was _he _involved in this too? Angrily she began to type: I wasn't expecting to hear from you again. I suppose I should have guessed you'd be connected with Calculator somehow.

The reply was virtually instantaneous:

Sorry, wrong employer. I'm currently a consultant for Cobblepot Limited.

_Oh, lovely. Wait…_

That's not the same thing?

This time the response was longer.

Not since Kuttler made the mistake of engaging Mr. Cobblepot's services, and then reneging on his agreement. I'm sure that you can appreciate that such a thing simply can't be done without certain repercussions. I've been hired as an expert in determining what repercussions might be deemed most appropriate. And I've been authorized to extend an offer to you.

Oracle read the message in disbelief. What kind of game was Penguin playing now?

Are you aware of my group affiliations? She typed back. Rough translation: "are you flipping kidding me?"

Oh yes, the reply came. Don't worry. He's not asking you to do anything that is likely to offend your moral sensibilities. My employer wishes to neutralize Kuttler as a threat to his empire. He is willing to offer you a chance to be rid of the nuisance as well…

A key turned in the front door lock, startling her. She recognized the familiar tread on the wooden floor. "Hi, Babs, I'm back!" Dick called.

"In here," she shouted. "You need to have a look at this."

As he entered the den, Barbara drew his attention to the rest of the message displayed on her laptop.

Following are the names and locations of Kuttler's three closest living relatives. My employer would prefer not to involve them in this matter, but some of his people might be a bit over-eager. It's not always easy for him to restrain them. Cobblepot believes that he might be able to hold them off for two days, perhaps three. After that, their corporate loyalty and wounded pride could lead them to act contrary to his personal wishes. My employer feels that it's best for everyone concerned if you were to take over the arrangements for safeguarding Mr. Kuttler's next of kin.

"Wait," Dick broke off, confused. "Penguin wants to protect the family of someone who double-crossed him so badly that he's asking you to help him?"

"Keep reading," Barbara instructed, scrolling downward. "The next bit concerns you."

Naturally, with your assumption of responsibility for his family's continued wellbeing, it would then be in the Calculator's best interests not to back you into a corner.

Below that, Barbara had typed:

Interesting. Now, what does your boss get out of this?

Dick chuckled. "That was blunt."

"Penguin has more angles to him than a set of RPG dice. And he doesn't have an altruistic bone in his body. Soooo…"

Dick's eyebrows shot up as he read the next part:

Keep your associates out of the Iceberg lounge. Especially Batman. His presence is bad for business.

"Oh, I can just imagine." He grinned. "And here I was only recently thinking I might have goofed a few months back when I told Ozzie I'd be around more."

Barbara typed another question:

What about Calculator?

The reply was swift.

He's not one of your people. He's not an unfortunate innocent. He's not your concern. Don't try to change that circumstance.

Barbara frowned. "I don't like this part. Not at all."

Dick reached for a chair. "I don't either. So…"

Her frown deepened. All at once she smiled. "I think I got it. I won't be helping him, not exactly… but when I let him know that I'm hiding his family, I'm also going to tell him who made me aware of their existence. Kuttler's not stupid. He'll recognize a warning when he hears it. That should be enough."

Dick nodded his approval. "Sounds like a plan." He straddled the chair. "As far as Penguin's demand goes, if I shut down the Iceberg, the Gotham underworld would only have to find other places to meet—harder to infiltrate places. I think the old status quo might've been working just fine." He squeezed her arm. "Tell them you'll talk to me and do your best but you don't know if that'll be good enough. Ask if they can check back with you in twenty-four hours, and tell Penguin to do his best to keep his goons back." He leaned forward conspirationally. "I'll pay Ozzie a visit tomorrow night, and let him know how lucky he is that you were able to convince me. Oh, and that if I hear that one of those people you're going to protect suffers so much as a paper cut, he'd better not have any of his associates in the vicinity."

Barbara grinned back. "I thought you'd say that," she replied.

Dick watched as she typed in her response and sent it. "How are you going to track down Kuttler?"

Barbara clicked on one of the tabs at the bottom of her screen. "One of those relatives has an online address book. And lousy security. He should be asking his cousin for pointers."

She smiled with satisfaction as she fired off her reply. "Done."

Acknowledgement came a moment later, along with a warning not to stall for too much time.

She brought up a new window. "Now, for Calculator."

* * *

A few minutes later, Barbara had the satisfaction of watching Noah Kuttler's breezy self-assured style vanish. In its place appeared terse phrasing replete with spelling errors, as though he couldn't be bothered to check his messages before texting them.

I'll verigy htis with my contatcs, of course. She read his initial reply to her bombshell. Calculator didn't seem at all smug this time.

Oracle nodded to herself. Thanks to Savant, her former employee, now Penguin's 'consultant', she had a better understanding of how things lay.

Do that, she typed. Just remember: Penguin has avenues open to him that do not involve the online community. That makes him difficult to pin down. Trust me. She hesitated for one moment before adding: ;-D

Childish? Hell, yeah. But every now and again, she had a moment of weakness.

After three minutes passed without a response, she typed: Do we have an agreement?

The reply followed shortly. You will protect them. In exchange, I will protect your secert. We have a deal.

"And you're still trying to twist it so it looks like I'm the supplicant, you bastard," she muttered.

"Problem?" Dick asked.

Barbara sighed. "Not really," she said, as she closed the connection. "I guess it was too much to hope for that he'd actually thank me. I should know better."

Dick leaned over and brushed her lips with his own. "He doesn't appreciate you like I do," he returned. They embraced again, kissing longer this time. Separation came with obvious reluctance.

"So," Barbara said, straightening her hair automatically, "Bruce seemed…" she tried to find the right word. "Good," she said finally.

Dick nodded. "He said he was back," he replied. "Really back." He saw her expression and continued. "No, I know he's not ready to leave yet. After tonight, he knows it too. But for the first time, since I came back to Gotham, Babs… he's…" he paused a beat. "He's fighting again. And this time, I think it's for the right things."

Barbara cocked an eyebrow. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Ever since he came to Arkham, he's been fighting," Dick said thoughtfully. "He's been fighting his doctors, he's been fighting us, he's been fighting not to care…" He shook his head. "And you know how much he hates to lose." He grinned. "Babs, if you heard him—did you?"

She shook her head. "I can only get audio feed in the cells and in the offices. They don't have the Intake area wired." She gave an exasperated sigh. "And I couldn't lip-read very well…not the way the cameras are angled. I probably got about half of what he said."

"Oh." Dick took her hand. "Babs, for the first time since they sent him to Arkham, he's fighting to get out."

This time, Barbara's smile matched his own. "Well," she said, "considering that I didn't do much more than sit at my laptop and carry on a few IM-chat conversations while monitoring police band, and considering you didn't do much more than spend a few hours at Arkham keeping Jeremiah company… Did you get any ice cream, by the way? Or was that just for Bruce, Daddy, and the cops?"

Dick burst into laughter. "You knew about that? Man, I thought Jeremiah was going to spit acid!"

"Oh, you should have heard Commissioner Sawyer on the other end," Barbara countered, with a giggle. "I honestly think that if Arkham'd suggested taking him camping in the mountains for a couple of days, she would have agreed to it—she was that p.o'd."

Dick's eyes took on a speculative gleam. "Good to know," he said.

"Stop that!" Barbara laughed, swatting his hand away playfully. "I was going to say, it's been a pretty productive night."

"And it's not over yet," Dick said.

"It's not?" She stared at him. "You're going out again, now?"

He held up his hand in a placating gesture. "No, no, nothing like that," he said. "But you did promise Penguin you'd try to talk me into staying away from the Iceberg," he grinned. "So, Babs," he said as he bent to her level, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pulled her gently forward for another kiss, "persuade me…"

* * *

Rae Greene wasn't sure what to expect when the guards admitted her to Bruce's cell later that day. She'd barely had time to speak with the man earlier. Bruce leaped up as the door swung shut behind her.

"I appreciate your coming down here today, Rae," he said with a smile.

She smiled back. Bruce seemed to be acting much the way he had on the day that he had asked her to draw up the papers to formally name Dick Grayson as his son and heir. Then, he'd been very much the image of the affable playboy portrayed in the media, and yet, lurking below the surface, she'd caught a glimpse of iron purpose. Now, the façade was thinner, almost threadbare—something old and comfortable, pulled on hastily in a vain effort to conceal his inner turmoil.

"My pleasure," she replied. She didn't have much patience for the playboy image. "Shall we get down to business?"

Bruce nodded. "I'm sorry that there's only one chair," he gestured to the seat riveted to the desk by an iron bar. "You're welcome to it. Or, if you'd rather the bed, we could switch…"

She took the chair. "This is fine. Bruce, I…"

He interrupted her. "Normally, I'd offer you a cup of coffee, but circumstances being what they are, well…" The insipid grin was back in full force. It almost made her teeth ache in frustration.

"Bruce…"

His smile fell away. He seemed to sink further into the mattress. "I really botched things, didn't I?" He said. He raised his head. His eyes sought hers. "Alright. Tell me."

"Straight up?" Rae asked. "Fine. Yes. You screwed up any chance you might have had of getting out of here before Christmas. Judges don't look favorably on recent escape attempts when they're determining whether to approve a release."

"I see." Bruce slumped. "Well. That's honest."

"Up to a point," Rae said. "There are facts, and then there are ways to spin them. And, to be candid, Bruce? I don't know whether I'd have been pushing for a hearing next month even if you hadn't broken out yesterday." She smiled then. "I don't typically go into a courtroom expecting to lose. When I file the petition for your hearing, it's going to be when I know we can win it."

Bruce lifted his head. "How long?"

"Anywhere from three to six months." She forced herself to add, "minimum."

His hand gripped the trundle at the foot of his cot, knuckles whitening around the smooth, curved metal bar. "I've been in… custody, for almost seventeen months, Rae," he said, keeping his voice steady with supreme effort. "The only way I've lasted as long as I have was by… withdrawing. That's over, now. But if you're asking me to stick out another six months or more…" he shook his head. "It's a lot to ask."

Rae sighed. "It's not in me to sugarcoat the facts," she said. "If you can't work within the system, you aren't going to get out of here. You're the only one who can decide if it's worth it. And if you do, when you do, I'll be waiting to set the process in motion. But I'm not about to start those wheels turning if I believe that we're going to lose."

"You know," Bruce ventured somewhat testily, "I've triumphed over near-insurmountable odds before."

If the lawyer was irritated, she didn't show it. "That's excellent," she stated. "Let's see you do it again." She spread her hands. "By all means, progress faster. Prove me wrong. Work with Dr. Arkham until your regular shrink gets back here. If you can convince him you're improving, believe me, the judge will be a piece of cake." She sighed. "Circumstances put you here. You can get yourself out." A smile came and went. "You proved that last night. But if you want to get out and stay out," she shook her head. "No shortcuts. You didn't get your martial arts black belts through some Sally Struthers correspondence course. You're not going to get your release papers in a Cracker Jack box. Work within the system and I will back you."

Her expression hardened. "Pull another stunt like you did last night, and I withdraw from your case and you can find yourself another lawyer. If you need names, I'll be glad to furnish you with a list of contacts."

Bruce eyebrows shot up. He nodded his comprehension.

Rae smiled again. "I'm not about to mollycoddle," she said bluntly. "This won't be easy. We're both going to have to go over every possible detail, every scrap of information. It's not going to be fun." She extended her hand. "But if you're prepared to work for this, I'm prepared to work with you."

Bruce clasped her hand firmly. "Let's get started."

* * *

Firefly studied the city map carefully. In the three months since the Calder conflagration, he had set fire to various condemned structures, vacant buildings, and the like. He'd sought out distressed properties and edifices whose owners had let their insurance lapse. And he'd taken care not to stage his conflagrations too close together. So far, he seemed to have avoided suspicion. When buildings were old and dry, when negligent owners failed to schedule regular safety inspections, it was understandable that fires would break out.

Until now, he'd been setting "normal" blazes—pretty enough, but hardly masterpieces. In today's paper, though, he'd finally found his inspiration. During the last week of April Gotham City would be hosting a fireworks festival in Robinson Park. The final day, May 1st, would feature exhibitions from fourteen other countries.

Firefly smiled to himself. Once the other participants had unleashed their entries, he would unveil his. Warehouses ranged on either bank of the Sprang River would ignite sequentially at thirty-second intervals, stretching westward. For ten minutes, the flames and colors would rise, unimpeded, mesmerizing the viewers. And then, at the stroke of midnight, Arkham Asylum would erupt in a panoply of light and heat as the lion's share of the pyrotechnics caught fire and exploded.

It would be a sight that the city would never forget.

* * *

Jeremiah Arkham sat at the desk and gestured to Bruce to lie down.

"Actually," Bruce said as he stretched out, "I find I concentrate better when I'm sitting up."

Arkham said nothing. Bruce heard his pen scratching, though. A moment later, rustling pages told him that Arkham was probably reviewing his notes. Bruce closed his eyes. He'd been up later than usual last night, and it was starting to show.

"Well?" Arkham asked, startling him.

Bruce's eyes sprang open. "Well," he repeated.

"Are you prepared to cooperate, now?"

Bruce clenched his teeth. Slowly he drew a deep breath. "I'm prepared to do what I need to in order to get discharged," he said.

"If you think that you can manipulate me…"

_Oh, I know I can. But that's not the point._

Aloud he said, "Those weren't my thoughts."

"Oh really? What were your thoughts, then?"

Bruce smiled then. "I was thinking," he said, "about the months I've spent here. There's been a progression, I believe." He rolled onto his side. "I've gone from not caring where I was, to wanting to be here…" Jeremiah coughed. "You… _wanted_ to be here?"

"Would you prefer, 'believed I deserved it'? I suppose that would also be an accurate way to put it." He continued. "So, I think… that I should be grateful to you, Dr. Arkham," Bruce put on his most bland social expression. "Without your help, I don't know whether I'd truly care whether I stayed or left. Thank you."

He stole a sidelong glance at Jeremiah's expression and forced himself not to laugh. His thoughts took him back to an encounter at Pier 2, on a December 24th, several years ago.

_He'd followed two cryptic messages to reach this point. As he approached his quarry, he saw a small disk fly high in the air, to land on a checkered sleeve. A hand immediately slapped down to cover the silver coin. _

_Harvey Dent lifted his hand, nodded to himself, bent down and picked up two fair-sized, gaudily-wrapped boxes, and handed them to Batman. "You and the brat were the only two names on our list that we weren't sure how to reach, Bats." He said. "Merry Christmas."_

_That was when Batman saw a second set of presents on the pier behind Two-Face. Oh, shi—depending on the results of that coin-toss…_

_Dent watched, smirking, knowing what was going through the Dark Knight's mind. "Truth be told, Batman," he said, obviously enjoying himself, "we don't recall ourselves what we put in those boxes. _

_"The coin toss showed 'good heads'," he added. "But will it be good for **us**… or for you?"_

The look on Jeremiah's face now, mirrored that which Bruce knew he had worn that Christmas Eve. Just as Batman had been hard-pressed to know whether Dent had passed him a prize or a penalty, Arkham had no clue whether he'd just been mocked or praised.

It occurred to Bruce that he wasn't actually certain himself.

Finally, Jeremiah cleared his throat. "Let's continue, shall we?" He said crisply.

"As you like," Bruce returned.

_There's a time to analyze. There's a time to speculate. And, after you take the necessary precautions, x-ray the box, check for booby traps, and run the appropriate tests on the contents, there's a time to give the benefit of the doubt, assume that Harvey had the best of intentions in giving you both two dozen pairs of woolen socks, and move on._

* * *

Cassandra Cain was beginning to wish that she had never gone with Barbara to Ivytown, never met with Dr. McLeod, never obtained the bag of letters, which she now carried with her at all times.

"Batgirl" Oracle buzzed in her cowl-radio, "You need to get to the corner of Sprang and Tucker. Break-in in progress at Korman Pharmacy"

Cass fired off a grapnel. "Going now," she said. _Please, let Barbara leave it at that_, she thought fervently. _Please don't let her ask—_

"What letter does 'Tucker' start with?"

The line sailed cleanly through the air to loop around a fire escape banister. For one moment, it seemed to hang there, looking for all the world like the letter 'p' (P. Plastic). Cass groaned. "Tucker," she repeated, as she retracted the line and felt her feet leave the ground. "Tuh-tuh-tuh…" Mentally, she reviewed the contents of the bag. Not G (gold). Not D (damask), although that was closer. No… she knew this one. Tuh-toh-tih-tih… "Tin!" She shouted. "T!" She rested her feet briefly on the fire escape, then leapt to the rooftop, landing in a somersault. Springing upright, she got a running start and jumped to the next building.

"Excellent!" Barbara exclaimed. "What letter does it end with?"

For a moment, confusion reigned. Then, confidently she replied "umber. U."

Silence. "Try again, Batgirl," Oracle said.

_What? But_… "U," she repeated. "Tuck-ur. It's a 'u'. It has to be a 'u'!" She was approaching the edge of the rooftop again. The next one was a story lower. Cass gripped the safety railing, pulled up into a handstand, and somersaulted down, using her momentum and grappling line to carry her across the gap.

"Tuckerrrrrrrr…" Oracle said, making it sound like a growl.

Cass felt like growling herself. "Can't hear, Oracle," she snapped. "Static." She turned off her comlink. The last thing she needed going into a fight was a distraction. She could see her quarry below her.

In a move reminiscent of the man who had given her a new purpose years ago, she lowered herself to a second-story balcony, and then sprang lightly down, letting her cape slow her velocity.

As soon as the would-be burglars spotted her blocking the drugstore entrance, they dropped the pharmaceuticals. One of them raised his hands high.

Yarn. Y. Cass blinked. With his arms uplifted like that, the young man did look a bit like a 'y' but…

The other three came at her in a rush, and there was no more time to wonder. She glided among them, swift as steel and nearly as deadly, tossing the thugs almost nonchalantly, over the counter, down the aisle, and against the wall. They were in no mood to resist as she secured them, moments later, for the police.

Outside the pharmacy, she paused, remembering. She glanced up at the sign on the corner. Under her mask, she frowned. She did recognize that one. She closed her eyes and tried to remember… the letter was wrapped in coarse fibers, thin like her grappling line, but rough to the touch. She did know it.

Turning her radio back on, she reported, "Robbers stopped. Going back to patrol."

"Nice work," Oracle replied. "Things are quiet right at the moment. I'll keep you posted."

"Yes," Batgirl replied. "Oracle?" She smiled. "R." _Rope_. And she hadn't needed to look at the letters in the bag at all, this time.

* * *

"You were eight years old when you lost your parents, were you not?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "Yes," he said softly. "I'm not comfortable discussing this," he admitted. "Can we please change the subject?"

Jeremiah sniffed. "Are we being uncooperative, Bruce?" He clicked his tongue in mock-disappointment. "And I was going to reinstate your yard privileges." He shook his head. "It must be galling for you to have to yield to my recommendations on your program of therapy…"

_Finally. We agree on something._

"As I stated before, it is in your best interests to acquiesce to my course of treatment…unless, of course, you prefer solitude in your cell for an indefinite period of time?"

_I'm thinking, I'm thinking_…Actually… He _was_. Not about whether to cooperate—there was too much at stake for him to do otherwise. No, he was thinking about the administrator himself.

"I was eight," he said slowly. "They were shot. In front of me. I could do nothing to stop it." He found that he could keep his voice steady if he kept his account to the bare facts, and his words to as few syllables as possible.

"I see," Jeremiah said, leaning forward. "And how did that make you feel?"

Was Arkham _trying _to provoke a violent reaction? Bruce fought not to roll his eyes. He'd have slightly better luck if he put Desoxyn in my app—he broke off the thought suddenly.

It's exactly the same thing, he realized. Hush knew that in order to break me, it wasn't enough to rob me of my freedom—he had to attack my control. And Jeremiah…

No, on second thought, Jeremiah was different. Bruce felt his pulse race as the answer hit him. It was like looking at his reflection in a funhouse mirror. He understood Jeremiah… because he understood himself! Jeremiah Arkham had the same obsession with control. It stemmed partly from being in charge of the asylum, of course. Bruce wouldn't have expected less of any chief administrator. But Jeremiah's control was tenuous… desperate, even. As though he suspected that he was not that far removed from the patients under his care, and needed Arkham's walls and boundaries in order to remind himself of the distance that separated him from the inmates...

Bruce remembered something, then. Something that he'd found out ages ago, when he'd read up on Jeremiah's achievements prior to taking over the asylum. There'd been a… significant occurrence early in the doctor's career… Bruce smiled faintly. He could use this.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I must have felt much the way you did, some years ago, when you encountered a man robbing a convenience store. You spoke to him, and he listened. You must have thought that you were getting through… until, quite calmly, if the eyewitness accounts are to be believed, the man turned his own gun on himself."

_He killed himself rather than endure another second of Jeremiah's conversation._ Bruce's lips twitched. _He could empathize_.

He looked at the doctor, and noted with satisfaction that Jeremiah's smug expression had vanished.

Bruce nodded, as though to himself. "That was probably the first time you'd seen a man die in front of you. You'd been speaking to him, coming to understand him…perhaps even care for him. And then, he died—violently—before your eyes, likely before you even understood what was happening." He rolled onto his side.

"Tell me, Doctor Arkham, how did that make _you_ feel?"

There was a loud snap. Jeremiah looked down, startled, to discover that he'd stabbed his pen into his clipboard with such force that the tip had cracked. Ink was leaking out, smearing his notes. He wiped his hand fastidiously on his white lab coat.

Bruce fought back a smile when the doctor absent-mindedly slid the pen, nib down, back into the pocket of his shirt.

"Doctor Arkham?" He asked, allowing some genuine concern to come through in his voice. Much as Jeremiah had provoked him, Bruce wasn't entirely comfortable with the way he'd turned the tables. It felt disagreeably like sinking to the doctor's level.

Jeremiah cleared his throat. "Very well, Bruce," he said, striving for nonchalance. "How would you describe your elementary school days?"

* * *

"Hey."

Startled, Bruce looked up from the case file. "Barbara?" He asked in disbelief. The five days were up today, he knew, but he hadn't expected anyone to come by this early. Bruce got up and walked rapidly back to the window. "Barbara! This is…" he broke off. "It's… good to see you."

Barbara pressed her hand against the screen. "I've been stuck in the patients' waiting room for an hour; they wouldn't let me downstairs until now," she laughed. "Dick's coming later, of course, and Daddy'll probably be here before too long, but…" she broke off. "I should have come before this," she admitted.

Bruce shook his head. "I can't imagine that you would be comfortable visiting me… here," he said.

"It's not like I have to roll past his cell on my way down here," she pointed out. "Look, you have your demons, I have mine. I just decided it was time to stop… letting them win."

Bruce pressed his palm to hers. "That's not as easy as it sounds."

She conceded the point. "I feel like someone's dragging their fingernails against a blackboard," she admitted. "How do you stand it? Seriously."

"When a situation is unavoidable," Bruce said slowly, "it must be endured."

Barbara nodded. "I understand," she said, patting the arm of her wheelchair. "I still don't know how you do it, though."

"Yes, you do," Bruce countered, his gaze locking on her fingers, that still gripped the armrest.

She gave him the slightest of nods. "Maybe."

Bruce shook his head. "No. Not 'maybe'. You… adjusted to your circumstances." He closed his eyes. "I withdrew from mine."

"So did I, at first," Barbara reminded him.

His lips twitched. "Therapy," he stated. He considered—and rejected—the possibility that she'd steered the conversation in this direction. He'd managed to control the flow of this particular dialogue all on his own.

"I never thanked you for footing the bill." She frowned, and continued in a harsher voice, "And don't you dare say it wasn't anything—it was!"

Silence. After a few minutes, Barbara wondered whether she should leave. "What were you reading," she ventured, "before I came?"

Automatically, his eyes flicked toward the desk. "Cold case files," he said. "Detective Montoya brings them—but then, you know that."

She was too smart to play dumb. "Yeah. I just wasn't sure if that's what you were doing this morning." A thought occurred to her. "Is it okay I'm here? I'm not keeping you away from your work?" As Bruce started to reply, she added, "And no, I'm not looking for a graceful way out, unless that's what you want."

It wasn't what he wanted. And yet, he needed to get back to the Nilsen case. Something didn't gel—and it felt like he was overlooking the obvious. Maybe… He shook his head. For five days, he'd wanted to see somebody besides Jeremiah and the silent hulking attendants who delivered his food and clothing with neither greeting nor farewell, and who might have been automatons for all their reaction on the occasions that he'd attempted to thank them for their service.

He hesitated. "Stay if you'd like," he said. "I'm sorry. I don't have much to say… but if you don't mind quiet…"

Barbara's relief was palpable. "Small talk's never been my strong point, either."

Bruce smiled at that. "I understand." He crossed back to the desk. Instead of sitting down, though, he retrieved the file and made his way back to the bed. "Barbara, on second thought… may I go over some of the elements of this case with you? I think I might need another perspective."

She grinned back, pleased but surprised. _The great and mighty Batman is actually asking for help? Not demanding, but asking? Unbelievable._ She held out her hands, palms up, a little more than shoulder-distance apart. "Hit me."

* * *

Jim came by about an hour later. He brought a new cardigan with him.

Bruce blinked. "How did you know I lost…" he turned to Barbara. "The security cameras showed me wearing it when I left," he realized.

"They might have," Gordon said before his daughter could reply. "But you wouldn't have been able to walk half a block in downtown Gotham unless something was covering that jumpsuit." He smiled. "Give me a little credit."

An attendant came then to unlock the window. "Move to the opposite wall," he ordered Bruce.

"Is that really necessary?" Gordon asked.

The attendant was silent.

Bruce complied with a sigh.

Gordon slid the sweater across and the attendant relocked the window and moved away. Bruce returned to the bed.

"I try to take it as a compliment that they think so highly of my powers of escape," he remarked.

"Well, you did escape," Barbara pointed out.

"I didn't use the window." He looked at Gordon. "Thanks for the sweater."

They chatted for awhile. Then, Barbara and Jim left together. Bruce went back to the case files.

* * *

It seemed like no time at all when Dick appeared. "Babs said you seemed to be doing okay," he said. His smile dropped. "Are you?"

Bruce moved over to the bed. "All things considered, yes." His eyes narrowed. "Patrick Morgan Wayne Enterprises?"

Dick sighed. "The board of directors was worried about the impact to the company when Akins outed you to the media. The name change helped. Lucius and I were hoping that we could unofficially switch back at some point down the road." He shook his head. "I probably would have mentioned it to you at some point, back when the changeover happened, but you were… out of it. And later, I didn't know how to bring it up. I'm sorry. I should have told you."

Bruce was shaking his head. "I'd figured it was probably something like that," he said. "You don't have a thing to be sorry about."

His palm was against the screen. Dick covered it with his own. There'd been a time when Bruce's hand had dwarfed his. Now, they were both of a size.

Bruce continued. "I should never have placed you in that position. I had no—"

"You had every right to ask," Dick countered. "I knew things weren't going well for you the last couple of weeks. I wanted to help, but I didn't want to…"

"…to end up as my jailer," Bruce nodded. "I couldn't see that at the time." He looked away. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "And then, when you didn't come by the next night, I-I wondered if I'd finally pushed you away—"

He broke off. Dick was tapping softly on the wall. His eyes widened. "No wonder. Is everything—?"

Dick nodded. "It is, now. But it looked bad for a little while. Babs doesn't panic often, but given the circumstances…" He let his voice trail off.

"I understand." His eyes locked on Dick's. "It was the right decision. Each time."

The younger man raised an eyebrow. "You know, there was a point when I would have given anything to hear you say that." As he uttered the words, he realized with some surprise, that such was no longer the case. Bruce's acknowledgement meant—and probably always would mean—a great deal to him. Somewhere along the line, though, 'impressing Bruce' had become a perquisite, rather than an end in itself. "Even so," he added, "I shouldn't have turned you down flat like that. I should have explained better…"

"I wouldn't have listened," Bruce admitted.

They shared a smile.

"Alright," Bruce said, a moment later. "I think it's time you told me the rest of it. What have I missed in the last year and a half?"

* * *

"So," Jeremiah said, "you were oblivious to the dangerous nature of your activities until the night that your partner was shot?"

Bruce studied the restraints that encircled his wrists and grimaced. True, he was now allowed out of his cell for therapy, but given that he had escaped from the asylum while being escorted to Arkham's office, Jeremiah had decided that certain precautions were warranted. "I wouldn't say that," he stated. "I was aware, of course, of the inherent risks, but I thought that I'd compensated for those."

Over the course of the last two weeks, a sort of wary understanding had developed between the two men. Jeremiah made allowance for Bruce's reluctance to discuss certain sore subjects, while Bruce, in turn, responded to the doctor's probing questions on less-painful subjects. Every so often, Bruce tossed him a crumb—an issue that seemed, on the surface, to be a touchy subject, but one he had thrashed out, and with which he had come to terms, ages ago.

It seemed to be working: only yesterday, Arkham had magnanimously restored his yard privileges. Bruce had suppressed the irritation he felt at being beholden to Jeremiah long enough to offer the doctor his sincere thanks. That much, Jeremiah was definitely entitled to. What did it really matter if Jeremiah seemed to interpret it as Bruce warming up to him? Bruce knew better.

Jeremiah continued. "You heard the gunshot, felt the bullet fly past you, and then you—" He broke off with a frown. "Just what IS that noise?"

Bruce heard it too. Angry voices, feet pounding, drawing closer… He tensed. This could be trouble. "Stay here," he ordered.

"Where do you think you're…"

"Not far," Bruce said, holding up his hands to remind Arkham of the restraints.

"Sit down," Jeremiah snapped. "If that is what it sounds like, the safest thing to do is to lock the door." He started forward.

Bruce rose to his full height, clasped his hands together, and swung them into Arkham's solar plexus. The doctor fell back, gasping. "If they break in, we're sitting ducks," he said flatly. "We might be able to slip out undetected." He sighed. "Or you will, while they're chasing me." Maybe he wasn't Batman anymore, but certain behaviors transcended the costume. "Be ready to go when you hear them move past."

As he opened the door, Bruce heard a bloodcurdling scream and saw the guard who had been waiting outside fall to the floor. Bruce stared into a pair of familiar gray eyes.

Without pausing a beat, Tommy Elliot swore, lifted the taser a second time, and thrust it against Bruce's chest. The current ripped into him, tensing every muscle at once, robbing him of his breath, as he sank to the ground. And he could hear the triumphant shouts of the other inmates drawing closer…


	11. Chapter 11: New Understandings

Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta. Special thanks to Will Moore for help with Joker's dialogue.

"Leavin's Not the Only Way to Go" written by Roger Miller. From Big River (Copyright 1988 by Decca)

* * *

_People reach new understandings all the time.  
They take a second look, maybe change their minds.  
People reach new understandings every day.  
Tell me not to reach and I'll go away._

_Roger Miller, "Leavin's Not the Only Way to Go"_

* * *

**Chapter 11: New Understandings**

Hush stared down at Bruce's groaning form and growled "Stay put." Then, with several vicious blows of his foot, the former surgeon kicked the injured man hard enough to nudge him over the threshold of the office. He pressed down on the push-button lock, and slammed the door closed.

"It's locked!" Bruce heard him call. "Let's get out of here!"

He heard the inmates shriek past.

"Are you able to move?"

He opened his eyes. Jeremiah Arkham was kneeling next to him with an odd expression on his face. It took Bruce a moment to recognize it as concern. He struggled to rise, muscles protesting as he did so.

"Come on," Arkham said, as he reached for Bruce's hands. He unfastened the restraints, and took hold of Bruce's arm, draping it across his own shoulders. "I realize that you dislike lying down," he said, as he guided the injured man toward the couch, "but I'm afraid that I'm going to insist, this time."

Bruce shook his head, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his chest. Elliot's kicks might have cracked a rib or two, but he couldn't worry about that now. "I have to stop them. The guard… They'll…"

Arkham pushed him firmly back onto the padded surface. "Much as you don't want to hear this: whatever they were going to do to him has already been done, by now." His voice was surprisingly gentle. "At this moment, you need to rest."

"I'm fine." He'd worked through worse pain than this before.

Arkham gave an exasperated sniff. "In addition to any other injuries you might have just sustained, you've been shocked _twice_ by a stun baton. Would you like me to review the potential complications with you? As per standard procedure, you need to be kept under observation. Preferably in the infirmary, though I grant you that's not possible at the moment."

"You can observe me via the security cameras," Bruce made an effort to get up from the couch, "as usual."

"Do I need to replace your restraints?" the asylum director demanded icily. "Lie still."

Bruce considered. His muscles were still sore from the tasering, while his ribs were aching. Once he recovered more fully, he didn't doubt that he could overpower the doctor and get the door open, but not if Arkham had him tied down to the couch. Was it equipped with restraints? He turned his head and looked over the side. Yes, he could see the very edge of one of the straps from his angle. Arkham did not appear to be making an empty threat. With a glower, he sank back against the cushioned leather.

"That's better." Oddly, Arkham delivered this pronouncement with none of the smugness that Bruce would have expected.

The director sighed. "They'll find us eventually," he said. "Your people or the police. I suppose we were overdue for this sort of thing."

Bruce frowned. "Overdue?" He tried to roll onto his side, but fell back with a gasp as his body screamed in protest. The after effects of a stun baton generally did not exceed a few minutes, but those minutes were… less than pleasant.

"While escapes happen with dreary regularity," Arkham explained, "every now and again, the escapees aren't content with putting as great a distance between themselves and the Asylum as possible. It's been almost six months since the last rampaging mob. The average interval is four, I believe." He sighed again. "We have strategies in place for such an eventuality. They include locking the office door and hoping that the inmates don't press the matter." He moved a file cabinet over and jammed it beneath the doorknob. "And if they do," he added, as he unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a taser of his own, "I can fend off a few of them, at least."

_So much for rushing Jeremiah_, Bruce thought. It might still be possible, but it wouldn't be as easy as he'd initially surmised.

"I imagine you'll miss dinner," Arkham said. "I keep a supply of granola bars, pop tarts…"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not hungry." He paused. "Thanks, though."

The asylum director smiled thinly as he positioned his desk chair at a right angle to the door. "You're welcome." He sat down, holding the taser loosely across his lap. "By the way," he added, eyebrows raised, "I wouldn't have thought that there was much love lost between yourself and Doctor Elliot."

Bruce rolled to face him. "What?" The movement caused his ribs to shriek in protest. The taser effects, however, seemed to have worn off.

"Well," Jeremiah pointed out, "that horde _was_ looking for me. But when you opened the door," he frowned, "you do realize that all Elliot had to do was wait for the others to catch up with him? I wouldn't have given much for either of our chances under that circumstance. By incapacitating you and shutting us in here, I think he saved _both_ our lives. While I'm hardly ungrateful," he added dryly, "I do have to wonder why."

"It's a good question," Bruce admitted. "I don't know."

* * *

"Well, well, well… if it isn't the Bat-_blunder_! Playing dress-up, now? Must be nice to finally ditch the short pants!" A maniacal cackle carried above the panicked screams of the crowd as they tried to run away.

Batman assumed a fighting stance. "Sticks and stones," he growled.

The Joker snapped his fingers. "Break your bones? If you insist…" In one swift motion, he raised his gun and fired.

Batman threw himself to one side, narrowly evading the… _ping pong ball_? Joker was using a Lil' Popper? He grimaced and reached for his grapnel as the ball slammed into the stone wall behind him.

There was a loud CR-R-A-ACK as the ball hit, and Batman spun around automatically to see the wall appear to contract. Then it expanded, showering debris in all directions.

The grapnel caught a small ledge projecting from a nearby building and the Dark Knight swung clear. Still in mid-air, he opened one of the pouches in his utility belt.

"Keep it in your pants, Bat-bunko. It's not like we're going steady here!"

The Dark Knight jackknifed his body, wrapping his legs around the cable. One hand found the gas mask and pressed it over his nose and mouth. The other tossed a silvery sphere at the Clown Prince of Crime.

The ball landed a few feet away and rolled harmlessly to a stop. The Joker smirked. "Missed me, missed me, now you have to kiss m… Kaff! Kaff! " A paroxysm of coughing seized him as he doubled over. "Hey!" He wheezed. "No fair! Gas is _my_ gag!"

There was a muffled thud. A charcoal gray arm wrapped around the wheezing clown's throat. Joker slammed his foot down on Batman's instep. Immediately the pressure on his windpipe eased, and he sprang away.

Batman loomed before him, dark and terrible.

Joker giggled nervously. Then his eyes went flat and he brought up the ping pong gun, level with his opponent's torso.

Batman feinted for his assailant's eyes, and then, as Joker backed up a pace, he moved to one side, and brought his hand down on Joker's wrist with a swift chopping motion. The popper clattered to the sidewalk. Batman kicked it away.

With an inarticulate shriek, the Joker leaped at his foe, but the Caped Crusader was ready. He seized Joker's arm and pinned it behind the grinning clown's back. Then came a faint clink, and the Joker felt cold metal encircle his wrist.

"Ooh!" He chortled. "I had no idea you were into bondage, too!"

Funny. Batman had never realized how irritating constant banter could be. Not that he'd ever been _quite_ this bad, he reflected, as he secured Joker's other wrist, patted his captive down and tried to ignore the steady stream of sexual insinuation spewing forth from the maniac's lips.

"Shut up," he snarled finally.

Joker's eyes grew wide, and he blinked innocently. "You _have_ changed, haven't you?" He chortled. "Neither bird nor bat, but somehow you've managed to combine the dreariest elements of each."

Several police officers appeared on the scene, and Batman gave his prisoner a slight shove. "Take him," he snapped. The officers did.

The grin grew wider. "You have a whole new set of buttons to press, don't you?" His feet beat a frenetic tap-dance as two policemen held firmly to his arms. "It's going to be such fun playing around with them; I just _love_ unpredictability!" He attempted to break loose, but the officers maintained their grip. Joker contented himself with blowing kisses in the vigilante's general direction. "_Au Revoir,_ Bat-bogue!"

Dick waited until the giggling clown was out of sight before using his comlink. "Joker's in custody, Oracle. How are the others doing?"

The reply wasn't long in coming. "Batgirl was bringing in Dent when she intercepted Harley en route to your position. Arsenal took down Zsasz, plus Scarface and the Ventriloquist. Canary's had a busy night. She maneuvered Freeze into neutralizing Ivy, then topped that off with Hatter. Huntress…" she paused. She continued a moment later, relief clear in her voice. "Sorry about that, Bat-Wonder. She just reported in. Scarecrow is down for the count. I think our Ms. Bertinelli's been channeling Margaret Hamilton… I heard her say something about stuffing a mattress with Crane if he ever crosses her path again."

"Hush?"

"Catwoman." The smile on her face carried into her voice. "That's all the heavy hitters. GCPD got a bunch of the second-stringers. There are still a few inmates at large, but none of the really dangerous ones."

Batman grinned. "Best news I've had all afternoon. I think I'll grab a quick shower and then head over to check up on Bruce."

"Sounds good," the reply came. "Cass will probably be there ahead of you. It occurred to her that, for tonight anyway, Batgirl might have a legitimate reason to visit the asylum…"

* * *

The sun set early at this time of year. Jeremiah hadn't wanted to risk turning on the overhead bulb. On the off chance that any inmates still remained on the asylum grounds, they might be able to spot the light through the slats of the closed vertical blinds. The desk lamp was safer, although it gave forth a relatively small circle of illumination. At the moment, it was shining over an assortment of crackers, granola bars, toaster pastries, snack cakes, nuts, and dried fruit.

"Help yourself," Arkham invited.

"You mean," Bruce's voice dripped sarcasm, "you'll allow me to stand?"

"I could just put an assortment on the plate and bring it to you," Jeremiah snapped back. A moment later, he heard the leather couch creak as the other man got up. A moment after that, Bruce was at the desk, reaching for one of the paper plates.

"There's no… hot food?" Bruce questioned as he took a handful of nuts.

Arkham shook his head. "Maintenance of the containment facilities and staff salaries consume the lion's share of the budget." He tore the wrapping on a pop tart. "There've been no renovation funds worth mentioning for the offices, and I'm not willing to make too many demands of the electrical wiring in here."

"Oh." Bruce added some dried apricots to his plate. His chest still hurt, but not as badly as before. Either he had remembered his pain control techniques, or the ribs were bruised, but not broken. Either possibility was welcome news.

Despite himself, he felt a certain grudging respect for the asylum administrator. It would have been relatively easy for him to cut corners in other areas, the better to refurbish his own work quarters. And yet, the administrator's office, while well-appointed, was no better furnished than those of the other doctors he'd met with over the last year and a half. Unless things had changed recently, Arkham's home and car were commensurate with what one would expect on an administrator's salary. And, he had to admit Arkham was able to keep his head in a crisis far better than Bruce might have expected. Now if something could only be done about the man's insufferable ego…

_Tap. _

"Did you hear that?" Arkham asked.

Bruce nodded.

_Tap._

"One of your people?"

Bruce considered. "Are any of your other… guests capable of climbing to the third floor from outside?"

"Doubtful."

"You realize," Bruce stated, "that if we're wrong, it will pinpoint our location."

Tap tappa tap-tap… Tap-tap 

A thin smile spread across Arkham's lips. "I believe we're safe. Joker wouldn't climb this high. And I can't think of anyone else who would rap _that_ out."

Bruce nodded as the 'shave and a haircut' pattern was repeated. He crossed to the window, and pulled back the blinds. He wasn't that surprised to see bars partly obscuring his view.

Batgirl's upraised fist immediately relaxed into a wave.

Lip-reading, obviously, was not going to work here. "Does the window open?"

"Partially," Jeremiah said. "There should be a latch at the bottom."

Bruce found it. He was able to slide the pane about four or five inches sideways before he encountered resistance.

"Okay, Oracle," Batgirl was saying. "You were right. They're here."

She listened to the response, then focused on Bruce. "This floor is clear," she said briskly. "You open the door, I meet you outside office. Take me a minute. All windows this level have bars."

Bruce nodded. Oracle would likely be telling her about the roof access right now.

"Batman?" She hesitated. "Do you… talk now?"

Bruce nodded again. Then he smiled as he recognized the irony of a non-verbal response to her query. "Yes," he said. "I… talk now."

She relaxed. "Good. See you in a minute."

A drawer slid open and then shut. A key clicked in a lock. Arkham was putting away the taser. "I'll bring your plate to the infirmary," the doctor said, as he started to move the filing cabinet away.

Bruce froze. "I don't need…"

"Oh, for pity's sake, what difference does it make if you're there or in your cell?"

"I told you," he snapped, "I'm fine!" He pulled the door open. Batgirl dashed down the hallway toward him as he did.

"All clear," she stated. The black mirrored lenses of her cowl moved from Bruce to Jeremiah. "Most patients are back now. Police have some too." She turned back to Bruce. "City is safe."

He nodded. "Thanks." Cassandra Cain, unlike many others, had never been put off by his taciturn behavior. Until his arrest, she'd never insisted he hold up his end of a conversation. Even now, she was satisfied with a one-word reply.

"Are you… okay?" She asked after a moment.

Bruce nodded again as Jeremiah interjected, "He took three hundred thousand volts from a stun baton twice, and several kicks that might have cracked ribs. He needs medical attention."

_She was asking me, not you, you…_

Batgirl's posture bespoke confusion. "But… there are cameras everywhere. If he's hurt bad, you can't tell? I… don't understand."

_Thank you!_

Arkham took a deep breath. "There are policies and procedures that must be followed. Even though a taser is considered a non-lethal weapon, it _has _contributed to deaths in the past. If there were to be any complications in Mr. Wayne's case, I'd rather they took place where the proper care is seconds, not minutes away."

The young crimefighter thought that over. Then she took a step into the room, favoring her right leg as she did. She placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Banged leg fighting Harley," she said sheepishly. She looked past Bruce, at Dr. Arkham. "Hurts. Maybe doctors here can look at it…?"

Jeremiah nodded slowly. "I believe that can be arranged."

She focused on Bruce again. "Can you… can you keep me company if no… objections?"

Bruce stifled his initial outrage. Of course it was a ploy to get him into the infirmary. Cass had to know he'd see it for what it was. Then why… why was he fighting Jeremiah on this issue, anyway? Alex had called it, weeks ago: his need for control was out of control. This was a power struggle, and… whether he accepted it or not, at Arkham Asylum, the power did rest with Jeremiah.

He didn't like it. He hated it, in fact. But in this case… in this case, Batgirl was offering him a way to give in that didn't involve a loss of face. He could accept the opportunity, or he could accept the consequences of turning it down. _To bend was not to break_. He looked at Jeremiah and nodded faintly. Then he squeezed Cass's shoulder. "Alright. Let's go."

* * *

"It's been an exciting afternoon."

Doctor Thomas Elliot sat bolt upright in bed. "I was saving him!" He snapped.

The shadow drew closer, one edge of its cape billowing out behind him, its pointed ears looking vaguely satanic in the moonlight. "With a stun baton?"

"I swear!" Elliot gasped, as Batman brought an object out from under his cape. The device wasn't much bigger than a television remote. Two prongs protruded from its top. Between them, energy crackled ominously. "We were going to take out Arkham. I-I went to check if he was in his office. Bruce opened the door. I had to get him inside fast before the others saw him." He tried to inch away from the taser, but the cell was small, and his back hit the wall behind him almost immediately. "You know him!" Elliot exclaimed. "If I'd told him to get back inside and lock the door, he wouldn't have listened. The others would have heard me! I had to use the taser—it was the only way to keep him alive!"

The electrical current on the taser switched off abruptly, and the short baton disappeared again beneath Batman's cape. "I believe you," he said harshly. "But I _am_ watching. The next time you want to play Spartacus, just get out of here. Do not pass the staff offices, do not collect two hundred dollars." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Because if I suspect that you passed up a more benign method…"

"What?" Hush demanded, outraged. "You'll what?" He held up his right hand stiffly, and attempted to make a fist. He managed to close his fingers partway, before gasping and letting the appendage fall back to the bed. "Do you have any idea how many painkillers I've been on for this?" He demanded. "Well? Do you? Percocet doesn't work. _Morphine _doesn't work. You didn't just take my livelihood, damn you. You took my life."

"I have as much sympathy for you as you do for Bruce," Batman countered. "Watch yourself, Tommy. You have _two_ hands, after all."

A moment later, Elliot was alone in the cell.

* * *

In the stairwell, a few steps away from Elliot's quarters, Batman slumped against the wall. He hadn't realized until now, how much damage the batarang had caused. He sighed. "Oracle," he said, "do me a favor? Could you let me know if there's anything new on the market for the pain associated with… with nerve damage?"

The reply was instantaneous. "Will do. And Dick? Don't feel too bad about it. He went to Arkham's office with the _intention_ of committing murder. Bruce's presence stopped him." She sighed. "He wasn't an innocent bystander today, and he sure as hell wasn't one the night you threw those 'rangs."

"I know," Dick said. "I just… I know he probably deserved what he got. Sometimes, I just wish I hadn't been the one to give it to him."

He took a breath. "How's Bruce?"

"The X-rays showed nothing broken. He's sleeping now. Cass is still there."

He nodded, relieved. "I shouldn't disturb him, then. I'll just leave him a note that I was there. I'll be home in a little while, Oracle. Love you."

"Love you back." She closed the connection.

* * *

Bruce was reading in his cell a few days later when he heard footsteps approaching. His eyes narrowed. He didn't recognize that tread… did he?

"Mr. Wayne?" Alex sat down at the window.

Bruce fought down the smile that he could feel forming on his lips. "Alex." He kept his tone neutral. There was no guarantee that his sessions with Jeremiah were at an end. If Arkham wanted to take over his case permanently, there was little that could be done about it. Best not to get his hopes up.

"How have you been?"

Bruce's eyebrows drew together. "I would think you would have been brought up to date."

Alex shrugged. "I heard one side of it. I try to hear both whenever possible. So, how would you assess the last six weeks?"

How, indeed? They had certainly been less than enjoyable, and yet… had his sessions with Alex continued, Bruce wondered whether he would have realized on his own that the Asylum was helping him. Over those weeks, he'd been forced to reassess his opinion of Jeremiah. He'd become more aware of some of his own perceptions… or misperceptions. On the whole…

"It's been," Bruce said thoughtfully, "a learning experience."

To his surprise, Alex chuckled. "You know, those were Dr. Arkham's exact words."

* * *

"Do you want to discuss the events concerning the breakout?" Alex asked in their session, a day later.

Bruce glanced up sharply. "I'm not sure what there is to discuss beyond things I should have been aware of from the start."

Alex said nothing, but he shot Bruce a quizzical look.

Bruce continued. "Of course, it's a bit irritating to realize that I needed to be locked in an office with Jer—with Dr. Arkham in order to see that for all his posturing, he wasn't, in fact," an ironic smile came and went, "the 'enemy'." Antagonist, perhaps, Bruce thought, but in his own bungling, shortsighted way, Arkham _was_ trying to help.

Alex frowned for a moment, and then his smile was back as comprehension dawned. "I was actually referring to _your_ breakout a few weeks ago, but we can certainly deal with the general escape if you want to."

"Oh." Bruce was quiet for a moment. His voice grew pensive. "I'd almost forgotten about that." Looking back now, it was hard to believe he'd actually pulled off the escape. He'd slid back into the asylum routine, and the events of that night had become like a distant dream to him. And yet… and yet, it _had_ been a turning point. "What did you want to know?"

"Well," Alex's eyes crinkled at the corners. "I'd personally _love_ to know how you managed it. I wasn't sure you had it in you at this point." Seeing Bruce frown, he added quickly, "but that would be more to satisfy my own curiosity. What was it that prompted you to make the attempt?"

A shrug. "Misperception. When I came here, I thought that after certain events that had transpired, my placement was deserved. I wasn't going to fight it." He laced his fingers together and flexed them. "The truth is, I welcomed it."

"Protective custody?" Alex asked.

Bruce looked for signs of derision but found none. "In a way," he admitted. "At any rate, at the time that I… broke loose, I'd come to find my imprisonment irksome. It led me to question my earlier acceptance of the situation."

Alex nodded. "So, you were content to stay here as long as you believed that your… your incarceration was warranted."

"I'm well aware," Bruce held up a warning finger, "that you were working on changing my mind when you left. It took your groundwork and almost two weeks of Jeremiah to accomplish that."

"And here, I thought I was being subtle, all that time," the doctor sighed. "What changed your mind?"

Bruce smiled faintly. "I arrived at the conclusion that nothing I had done could have possibly warranted six weeks of Jeremiah."

Alex laughed. "Personality conflict?"

"You could say that. I'd dealt with him in the past. Those dealings were… unpleasant." He sighed. "For both of us. Rightly or wrongly, I suspected his motivations in taking on my case."

"I see." Alex frowned. "Which begs the question, then: why return?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "My coming here," he said quietly, "was decided without my input. All I did was consent—at least internally—to something that was going to transpire in any case. Let me put the question to you, Doctor." He felt his heart begin to pound, although he couldn't quite say why. "In your opinion, was the decision wrong?"

Alex drew a deep breath. "No."

Bruce relaxed. "I concur. I don't know whether I needed to step away from the situation in order to see it more clearly, whether I'd figured it out already and hadn't wanted to allow myself to admit it, or whether I needed to… test my family's support one last time." He opened his eyes. "You want to know why I came back. I'm not sure I can explain it."

He thought for a moment. "When I began to train, as you're aware, I studied different fighting styles. At first, I took punches and kicks simply because I didn't know how to avoid them. Each night, I'd crawl, exhausted, onto a sleeping mat in the dojo, only to awaken before dawn, stiff and aching. Despite it all, Doctor, I still got up and went on. Do you know why?"

Alex started to respond, but Bruce didn't give him time.

"I went on," he continued, "because I knew that if I was to achieve my purpose, it was _necessary_ to go on."

He took another breath. "I came back because at this point, my purpose is to leave. Not simply to escape and spend the rest of my life living under an alias." The faint smile was back again. "Even if my… alter ego _weren't_ now a matter of record, I've tried being Batman full-time. I'm not prepared to discuss it at the moment, but suffice it to say that it was an experiment best not repeated." He shook his head. "The only way to be truly free of this place is to pass a hearing, and if that's what I have to do, then…" His voice trailed off. He closed his eyes. When he spoke again it was barely above a whisper. "…Then I have to work within the system."

He sighed. "In other words," he looked down. "Uncle." Pause. "You win."

Alex waited for Bruce's eyes to meet his again. "_We_ win, Mr. Wayne." He smiled. "We are on the same side after all."

A brief answering smile flashed. It was swiftly replaced by a frown. "That's something I've been meaning to bring up for some time," he said slowly. "Why do you persist in addressing me as 'Mr. Wayne'?"

Alex's tone was perplexed. "I thought it was appropriate to the situation. We didn't exactly start off on the best of terms. I felt some formality might be in order."

Bruce dropped his eyes. "It was," he admitted, "appreciated. Nobody else here appears to consider it."

"Maybe that's why."

Bruce absorbed that with a slight nod. "Be that as it may," he looked up, "the initial paradigm appears to have shifted." This time, his smile stayed. "My friends call me 'Bruce', Doctor. I'd be honored if you would, as well."

* * *

As the twenty-fifth of December approached, Bruce asked for—and received—permission to give up his lounge privileges in exchange for double time spent in the yard. Last year, he'd been oblivious to the trappings of the season. Now, however, the artificial evergreen bedecked with tinsel and colored balls, which occupied one corner of the lounge, and the colored streamers along the walls only served to remind him of holidays past. It wasn't that he actually wanted to join Wesker and Dent singing carols, or find Ivy under the mistletoe… _wait…hold that thought…no, still too risky. Best not to. _But this year would be worse.

There were compelling reasons why he was segregated from the rest of the inmates. It wasn't that he wanted to fraternize with them—he had no interest whatsoever in doing so. Still, to spend time in the empty lounge, to see the preparations for the holiday, knowing that he would be excluded from the actual festivities… There was a purpose in isolating him, true. He agreed with it wholeheartedly. But Bruce still didn't care to visit the lounge until after the holiday.

It was a shock then, to enter the yard one day, and to see an eleven-foot table set up along one wall. An assortment of sandwiches and pastries were neatly arranged over a white cloth. That wasn't the only surprise, however. A small knot of people clustered at the head of the table, waiting for him. Bruce felt a smile begin to pull at his lips. Dick, Jim and Barbara were there, of course. Cass, Rae and Montoya were as well. Perhaps that was to be expected. He decided not to spoil the moment by asking after Tim's absence. Less expected by far, though, was the presence of several other GCPD officers. He recognized some of them from the cemetery. Others, he'd had dealings with over the years. Lucius Fox, however, was a real surprise. And there was no way that he'd expected to see Leroy Shood again anytime soon. The youth was standing with about twenty-five other teens. Bruce suspected that he'd managed to contact most, if not all, of the former sixth grade class that he had sponsored at Grant Park P.S. As their eyes met, the boy grinned and beckoned him over. Dick was already crossing toward him.

Bruce took one hesitant step in their direction and then another. They surged forward then, engulfing him, leading him over to the table.

Afterwards, he never could recall fully the specifics of that afternoon. Certainly he had enjoyed the company. He must have had the refreshments. Had there been conversation? Almost definitely, though he was hard-pressed to remember a single word spoken. It had been almost overwhelming to see them here like this. And yet, he hadn't panicked or broken down. Gifts? Arkham must have sent out an approved list of items beforehand, because there had been no problem permitting him to bring the collection of clothing, books, and handicrafts back to his quarters.

There was one event, however, that remained indelibly transcribed in his mind: after the others had gone, Alex had drawn him aside and informed him that at the end of January, he would be permitted one weekend off the Asylum grounds. "Dr. Arkham concurs with me on this one," Alex said. "At the rate you're progressing, we need to start laying the groundwork for your eventual release."

It was going to happen. Yes, it would be a supervised visit. Yes, he'd be wearing an ankle monitor. Yes, there would be other restrictions. But it was going to happen. He was going to get out.

_Merry Christmas, indeed._


	12. Chapter 12: Between Darkness and Light

* * *

Thanks to Kathy, Debbie, and Paxtonfoist for the beta!

Chicken and Rice recipe from Second Helpings, Please! Montreal Jewish Women International of Canada (Mount Sinai Chapter 1091, Montreal). Page 62.

"Somewhere In Between" written by Phil Vassar. Performed by Phil Vassar on his _Phil Vassar_ CD (Arista, 2000).

_The Adventures of Dan and Sam_ written by Phyllis Yingling. Published by Vangar Press.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Between Darkness and Light**

"Let _him_ set the pace," Gordon cautioned. "If all goes well, this will be the first of many weekend passes. Don't try to plan everything."

Dick, Barbara and Cass nodded, as Gordon continued.

"He might want to walk around outside and get his bearings back. He might just want to stay here. Either way's fine."

Barbara cleared her throat. "Then, maybe we should eat in, instead of going out to celebrate."

"With a seven o'clock curfew in effect," Gordon agreed, "that's probably a good idea."

"Seven?" Cass wrinkled her forehead. "But… traffic. What if there's… delay?"

"If he isn't back at the apartment by curfew," Dick said slowly, "he'll have to notify the probation officer assigned to his case that he's running late. If he doesn't, then Arkham—or, more likely, that probation officer—will inform the police, and there'll be a warrant issued for his arrest. They're not going to listen to excuses."

The younger woman considered that for a moment, before stating her verdict. "Not fair."

"No," Dick confirmed. "It's not. But that's how it is, and that's what we have to deal with. As far as patrol goes, I've been talking with Vic over the last few days. The Titans have gotten a few new members, and Cyborg thinks its time to see if they're as effective a team in the field as they've been in the training room. So, I'm flying down to 'Frisco this weekend to brief them on what to expect, because they'll be monitoring Gotham that weekend."

"Tim too?" Cass demanded.

Dick nodded. "Unless he begs off. And I don't think Vic's going to let him. I know I wouldn't, if it were my call. Catwoman and Arsenal are going to be active as well," he continued. "And if the Titans run into something major, they're prepared to lend a hand." He looked around the room. "I'm not saying I'll always stay home when Bruce is on a pass," he said. "But this is his first one, and I'm taking a night off."

There were no protests.

"Right," Dick said. "So, getting back to the original point, we don't treat Bruce like he's made of glass, just…"

"Deal with his issues the way we dealt with mine when we were planning a vacation," Barbara said flatly. "Don't discuss any limitations or restrictions unless they're absolutely relevant, or _I_… or in this case _he_ brings them up. For the rest of it, we just treat him like we always did. Don't walk on eggshells to avoid mentioning 'the A-word', but don't constantly allude to it either." She grinned. "Exactly the way we deal with this chair," she added, tapping her armrest for emphasis, "and precisely where it can and can't go in the Pyrenees."

* * *

Dick was leaning against the car, by the front entrance of the asylum when the orderlies escorted Bruce outside. Bruce pulled his coat a bit more tightly around him as a wind started up. He was wearing the sweater that Jim had bought him over one of the heavy cotton shirts that someone had given him at Christmas. The gifts of clothing had unfortunately run to tops, socks, and outerwear, so Arkham was supplementing his wardrobe with its normal discharge clothing. Bruce tried to recall the last time he'd worn jeans when he hadn't been under cover. The times that he'd gone camping with Dick, had he… no, he'd worn trailhikers on those trips.

He sighed inwardly. He didn't really have any other options. He'd been arrested in costume and arrived at Arkham in a hospital gown. The clothing he'd borrowed from the shelter had been returned there. It was the jumpsuit or the jeans. Even if the denim fabric was a bit stiff, the jeans were unquestionably the better choice. The cut of the legs was loose enough so that the pants fit easily over the ankle monitor. They'd strapped _that_ on him this morning. Afterwards, Bruce found it impossible to get comfortable. The band didn't actually weigh very much, but every time he moved his leg, he remembered that the thing was there. It was a humiliating awareness.

Dick's face lit up when he saw Bruce walk toward him. Without a word, he opened the passenger door. Bruce got in quickly. "Drive," he said as soon as the younger man sat down.

"Can I get my seatbelt on first?" Dick asked. He grinned. "They're not going to change their minds if we take an extra minute."

"I realize that," Bruce said sharply, as Dick clicked the belt into place. "Drive."

Dick obeyed. "Did you want to do anything special this weekend?" He asked. "Or now? We could drive around the city or—or go up to the Manor, if you like."

The Manor. Bruce was silent for a moment. "How are things there?" he asked. "I mean… has anything changed?"

Dick frowned for a moment. Then understanding dawned. "Well, the police were over at the house a lot at first, when it looked like there was going to be a trial. They tore the place apart trying to find evidence."

"They never found the cave," Bruce said. "I remember you told me that."

Dick nodded. "They never found the cave because I set charges to seal off most of the entrances. I kept the one behind the Zesti billboard—actually, they changed it; it's a SunDollars ad right now—and I left the cracks alone so the bats could get out to hunt. Even if somebody _had_ found a way in, I think we did a pretty good job of clearing out anything they could have used. I had to destroy the Crays, though. Didn't want to take a chance that someone would be able to restore the memory if I'd only wiped them."

"Good call," Bruce said. "So, is everything the way the police left it?"

Dick shook his head. "Tim, Cass and I went over one day, after we knew for sure that the charges had been dropped and the cops wouldn't be back. We straightened up."

The traffic light shifted from amber to red and Dick stopped to wait. That was when it hit him what Bruce really wanted to find out. "We… I didn't know whether you wanted us to go through Alfred's things, or whether it was something you'd prefer to do on your own. In the end we… we left the room looking pretty much exactly the way he left it, but we boxed up everything that was in the dresser drawers and closet. It's in the attic now, any time you want to sort through it."

Bruce made sure that the light was in no imminent danger of changing before he placed a hand on Dick's forearm. "Thanks," he said simply. "I… realize that couldn't have been easy for you."

There wasn't much that Dick could say to that.

"I should go there," Bruce admitted. "Maybe next time. And I _would_ like to reacquaint myself with Gotham. But for now, let's just go…" He let his voice trail off, not sure exactly how to refer to Dick's apartment.

Dick grinned. "Home, it is." The light changed. "It's really great that you could make it," he added as he shifted the car into drive.

* * *

"I should mention before we get upstairs," Dick said after parking the car, "that there's… um… one more surprise." As Bruce started to get out of the car, Dick shook his head. "You might want to stay sitting down for this one."

Bruce settled back, a questioning look on his face.

A moment later he bounded out of the vehicle, nearly racing for the elevator.

"Take it easy!" Dick exclaimed. "She might not even be there, yet."

Bruce barely heard him. His thoughts were spinning. Selina had a daughter? He was a father? He had to get upstairs—what floor was the condo on? What should he say? What if…? He stopped so suddenly that Dick nearly bumped into him.

"Hey. You okay?"

Bruce didn't answer.

"Bruce?"

He turned around slowly. "I… I don't know if I'm ready for this," he said quietly.

"This? The weekend?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. I think I can manage that. Selina."

Wordlessly, Dick clasped his shoulder. Bruce reached up to squeeze his hand. "I understand her reasoning. I respect it. But I don't know if I'm… if it's a good thing for me to… renew our… relationship at this moment."

"Makes sense to me, all things considered," Dick said.

Bruce nodded. "To me, as well. But, in light of what you've just told me, she could read a statement to that effect as a rejection."

The grip on his shoulder tightened. "Bruce. You've been… away for over a year and a half. Do both of yourselves a favor: give her a little credit and cut yourself a little slack. You'll do fine." He paused before adding, "And if you need me, I'm right behind you—using you as a human shield in case she pops her claws."

Bruce shot him a murderous look, but he seemed more relaxed. "I suppose we should go up, then," he said. "Shall we?"

* * *

"You don't mind," Selina was saying, "that I'm bringing her by this early? I do have errands I need to run. I mean, I could take her along, but—"

Barbara nodded. "You wanted Bruce to get acquainted with her early."

"Not only that," Selina agreed. "Look, I know what I told Dick and I'm guessing you found out one way or another," she waited for the red-haired woman's acknowledgement before continuing. "Which means the kid's probably let Bruce know about that conversation he and I had a few months ago." She sighed. "The only thing dumber than not giving Bruce some warning before he gets up here would be," she took a deep breath, "would be if I tried to force answers out of him today about where he saw… us… in the future."

A squeal from the jogging stroller interrupted them and Selina bent down with a smile to unharness her daughter. "Someone noticed she wasn't the center of attention," she said. "Come on." She reached in. "Come on up."

"She's adorable," Barbara exclaimed. "Can I…?"

Selina grinned. "Oh, sure. Just, better take your glasses off. She's at that grabby age."

Barbara complied, sliding the case into the pocket of her shirt. Selina passed the baby over. Helena gurgled and wrapped her pudgy arms around Barbara's neck.

"Ooof! Hi, there, you!" She smiled down at Helena as the baby reached for a tendril of her hair. "She's really good with strangers," she praised, as she gently uncurled the tiny fingers.

"I've been doing everything I can to socialize her," Selina laughed. "Anyway," she said, sobering, "at some point, Bruce and I are going to have to sit down and discuss… us… and Helena, and the extent of his involvement or lack of involvement. But today is not the right day for it. So, I guess I figured it would be best if Bruce had a chance to meet Helena without thinking that I was scrutinizing his every move. I should head out before he gets…"

The door swung open. From the expressions on both men's faces, it was clear that they'd been standing outside the door for a few minutes. Dick looked away. "We didn't _plan_ to eavesdrop," he mumbled. "We just nee…" He broke off as Bruce gave him a hard stare. "Sorry."

"_I _needed a minute before I came in," Bruce admitted. "It's… good to see you again."

Selina took a step toward him. "You too," she said softly. She advanced until she stood an arm's length from him, then reached out and took hold of his shoulders. "I missed you."

Bruce closed his eyes. He didn't advance, but he didn't pull away either. After a moment, he placed his own hands around her waist.

Barbara occupied herself with the baby, while Dick carried Bruce's small overnight bag into the spare bedroom.

"I almost wish we had some music," Selina whispered. "This reminds me of the time we danced at Chester Sandrington's New Year's gala."

Bruce shook his head. "Not necessary." 'Not conducive to self-control' was more to the point. Hesitantly, he pulled her toward him. Her hands slid easily to his shoulder blades as she rested her cheek against his chest.

After a moment, he relaxed his arms and the two moved apart. Helena gurgled, prompting a startled laugh from Barbara.

Selina moved to reclaim her daughter. "Did you want to hold her?" She asked.

Bruce managed a nod. "She won't cry if I do?"

"No, Helena's pretty good about meeting new people," she laughed. "Here."

And suddenly the baby was in his hands. Bruce looked directly into a pair of familiar blue eyes in a face framed by curly dark hair. The coloring was his, but the coolly appraising, faintly quizzical expression was pure Selina. "Hello, there," he said softly.

Helena cocked her head, apparently sizing him up. Then without warning, she giggled, seized hold of his nose, and squeezed.

"Hey!" Bruce sputtered as the two women dissolved into laughter.

Helena seemed to take his reaction as an invitation to place her other hand in his mouth and explore his teeth. Her smile never waned.

"What are you trying to…" Bruce wondered why he was fighting his own laughter.

"Need some help?" Selina asked.

_Yes. Batman needs to be rescued from a ten-month-old. _"I can handle it," he tried to say. The words were muffled, however, thanks to the tiny fingers now pinching his lips. Helena seemed positively fascinated by his face. Feeling more than a little foolish, Bruce held her gently at arm's length, wondering why the thought hadn't occurred to him initially. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dick standing, facing the wall, shoulders shaking.

"I'll just leave you two alone to get to know each other," Selina laughed. She squeezed Bruce's shoulder. "We'll talk later," she promised. "When you're up for it."

She bent down to kiss the baby's cheek. "See you later, Darling."

As the door closed behind her, Barbara rolled forward. "I should have said it right when you walked in," she said, "but 'Welcome'." She motioned toward the bedrooms. "Let me show you what we've fixed up for you…"

* * *

They'd outdone themselves, Bruce had to admit. They'd either taken the quilt from his bedroom at the Manor, or found one exactly like it. Dick—he imagined that it had been Dick—had brought over some of his clothes and personal effects. He picked up the photo of his parents on their wedding day. Dick had made the frame at summer camp when he was eleven. Bruce ran a finger gently over the scrollwork. Dick had opted for acorns at the corners with a vine motif around the edges.

He walked over to the window and pushed back the draperies. There were no bars. _Good_. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of Robinson Park. He smiled. It wasn't quite home, but it was a far cry from Arkham. It was… comfortable.

Still smiling, he pulled open the bedroom door and went back to the living room.

Helena was sitting in her playpen, chewing seriously on a cloth book. Interesting aromas were coming from the kitchen. He blinked. Was Barbara baking bread? She seemed to be. And he thought he smelled apple pie, too.

He scooped up Helena, book and all, and followed the fragrance.

* * *

Barbara was sitting at the table, dicing tomatoes. "Hi!" She said, looking up. "I really hope you like bruschetta, because I needed to do something with these tomatoes. The pie comes out in about ten minutes, and then I was going to start on the chicken." She gestured vaguely toward the counter by the sink where Bruce could see the poultry soaking in a bowl of water.

"Dick'll be back soon. He's meeting Roy for coffee downtown, and then he's going to pick up Cass at the library."

Bruce blinked. "Cassandra? Library?"

She nodded. "She's got her ABC's down, but she's finding it difficult to remember all the phonetic rules. Then she discovered that if she's listening to an audio book, she can follow along in the print version a little better. It's slow going, but she keeps plugging." Barbara smiled. "I'm proud of her."

White foam started to leak out from under the lid of a pot on the stove. The burner hissed as the liquid hit.

"Ohhhhh!" Barbara wheeled over and quickly shut off the element. She used a potholder to lift the lid. "It's okay," she sighed. "I forgot to turn the soup down to simmer before I covered it. No harm done."

She replaced the lid and turned the burner back on—at a lower temperature, Bruce presumed. "Barbara," he said hesitantly, "I really appreciate what you're doing, but you didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It's no trouble," Barbara countered. "I've seen how they've been feeding you in Arkham."

Bruce didn't return her smile.

She let out a slow breath. "Look. Next time we can send out for pizza or something. I've just been living on takeout all week, and I figured as long as I was going to cook, I might as well go for the gusto." She tore off several sheets of paper towel and began to take the chicken pieces out of the bowl and pat them dry.

He relaxed as Helena snuggled against his shoulder. "I understand. And thanks." He smiled down at the baby. "You do realize that if this was an attempt to impress me, you've more than accomplished that." He grimaced. "I can't manage a tuna salad."

"Oh, come on!" Barbara laughed. "How can anyone ruin tuna salad? The timer went off and she rolled back to the oven to take out the pie. She glanced quickly at the open cookbook before adjusting the temperature control.

"Tim asked me the same question," Bruce admitted. "Immediately before sampling some of mine."

"Oh." Barbara thought for a moment.

Helena began to squirm.

"Maybe you should put her back in the playpen," Barbara suggested. "She can't really crawl around in here—she'd be in the way."

Bruce looked at the baby and smiled again. "I suppose," he said reluctantly.

He returned to the kitchen a moment later as Barbara was setting a large roasting pan on the table.

"Could you give me a hand with something?"

Bruce nodded. "No problem. What?"

"I'm a little pressed for time," she admitted. "I need another pair of hands. Could you please measure out two cups of rice and just put it in the bottom of the roasting pan for me? Cups are over on the side, there."

He hesitated. "You know I can't cook. Not 'don't'. _Can't_."

"I'm not asking you to boil the rice," she sighed. "Just measure out two cups. If it's a little over or under, it's no big deal."

It sounded simple enough. He complied.

"Thanks," she said. "Maybe," she admitted, "I did want to impress you… just a little bit. Oh, could you dump the chicken pieces in the pan, too, please?"

Bruce nodded. "No problem. And I meant it before, there was no need."

"Maybe not on the culinary front," Barbara agreed as she attacked fresh oregano with a mezzaluna. "Argh. I don't believe this. Third shelf in the pantry, can you take one of those boxes of onion soup mix and just pour both envelopes into the pan? Thanks." She hesitated. "I know you never really approved of my being with Dick."

Bruce paused in the act of tearing open the second envelope. "I disapproved when he was seventeen and you were twenty. If you ponder the situation, I'm sure you'll understand why."

"And after?"

"After?" Bruce frowned. "I don't…"

Barbara felt her hands begin to sweat. Maybe she shouldn't have brought this up. "When Dick first told you we were going out… your reaction was a bit… well…" _Lacking? Unenthusiastic, perhaps?_ "I thought I'd gotten beyond needing your approval by now, but maybe at the back of my mind, I thought that if I could… wow you with a meal, then..." She shook her head. "It sounded a lot less stupid before I said it out loud. Could you open one of the big cans of mushrooms? On the pantry door, second shelf from the top? Can opener's in the drawer under the microwave. They go in the pan, too, liquid and all."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I had no idea," he said quietly. "If I had disapproved, I would have said so. It didn't occur to me that…" He shook his head. "No excuses. It should have. There are things I'm not good at saying, but I should have tried." Without another word, he trotted over to the drawer and retrieved the can opener. He opened the mushroom can over the roaster and poured the contents in.

"Bend down," Barbara ordered abruptly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't hug you when you're towering over me. And right at this moment, I think I'd like to. Now bend."

Expression unreadable, he stooped to allow the embrace.

"That's better," she said. "And, you're going to get thoroughly sick of hearing this by the time the weekend's out, but I'm really glad you're here. Now get up before Dick comes back and gets the wrong idea," she laughed.

Bruce rose immediately. He seemed a bit more at ease, though. "I… if my being here poses a problem at some point, and you'd rather I not stay, I'll understand."

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to be silly, but she knew him. More importantly, she knew that he knew her. He wouldn't accept some meaningless statement about not posing a problem. "I'll take it under advisement," she said. "But really, I think I can handle it. Could you fill the big measuring cup with water to the 1-quart-mark and just pour that into the pan, too? Thanks."

As Bruce complied, she opened the oven door. "Great, now if you'll just put the lid down and slide it into the oven, that should do it." She grinned. "You're going to have to learn to cook one of these days," she said, closing the door. "I mean, you can't live on takeout. Rent _Fast Food Nation_, if you don't believe me." She set the timer for an hour.

Bruce shook his head. "It's not a good idea," he said.

"Well," she said, "I'm not saying you need to be able to make a soufflé, but I'm sure you could start with something a little more basic. Maybe something along the lines of the chicken and rice we're having tonight."

"I don't think s…" Bruce was about to utter another protest. All at once his jaw dropped. He jerked his head in the direction of the oven, eyes wide.

Barbara nodded, eyes gleaming. "You start by putting two cups of rice in a roasting pan…"

* * *

"Reassembling?" Dick echoed. "And they want…"

"Both of us," Roy confirmed.

"I'm honored, but I can't leave Gotham."

The archer shrugged. "I knew you were going to say that, Robbie, but I promised I'd ask. Seeing as I was able to talk you into joining the Outsiders, Hal thought I might have better luck than he would with you."

He rubbed his hands together as though wiping them clean. "So, I asked and you said 'no'. Now that that's out of the way… can I bounce something off you?"

Dick's eyes narrowed. "If it's a rubber arrow, Lian's going to find out all about the time her Daddy dressed up as the Easter Bunny."

"That was for charity, Batboy." Roy muttered. "Anyway, no. I'm serious. The Outsiders need a leader."

Dick opened his mouth to protest.

"And I don't mean you. If you're not joining the JLA, you're not going back to them. But that still leaves the slot open." He sighed. "I asked Katana. She turned me down outright. Of the rest of the team… I can't even think of someone with the potential, let alone the experience."

Dick took another sip of coffee. "I know what you mean. Even after all this time, they're not a team the way the Titans were." He set the mug down. "So you need a leader. Someone used to working with a lot of strong independent personalities, who isn't going to be intimidated by someone like Grace throwing a tantrum. Somebody who'll be able to earn their respect pretty early in the game."

Roy nodded. "Donna's still subbing for Wonder Woman. If Harrier were older, I'd consider it, but I don't see Metamorpho or Katana taking him seriously. Dinah's joining the League, so she's out. I asked Helena if she wanted to take the reins again, and she said something about it being hard enough for her to stick to the Bat-clan's no-killing policy as it was."

Dick laughed at that. "I guess that leaves Cyborg, then," he grinned. "Think the Titans can manage without him?"

"I was wondering about that," Roy admitted. "The thing is, when the Teen Titans got started, we were a few years younger than most of the current roster, and we didn't have a mentor-in-residence. I don't think the new team needs one either at this point. And if they do get into a bind, well, if Tim's in charge, he's going to call you. If you're not available, he'll either turn to the Outsiders or the League. He's not a reckless kid, and he knows when to ask for help. With that in mind, I don't think it would be that big of an issue if Vic were to move on."

Roy had a point. Dick steepled his fingers. "Have you spoken to either of them yet?"

"Nah, I wanted your spin, first." He grinned. "So?"

"The Outsiders will respect Vic," Dick said slowly. "If he could direct a group of half-trained adolescents with hormones and or meta powers, he can handle a group of hostile adults with attitude and or meta powers. And there's no question that Tim can manage the Titans. The real question is whether either of them will want to move up and on."

Roy carved off another morsel of devil's food cake with his fork. "And?"

"They will. They'll soul-search a bit, maybe turn you down initially, but they'll do it." He downed the last of his coffee. "Congrats on the League membership," he said extending his hand. "They knew what they were doing when they asked you."

"Yeah, right," Roy scoffed, taking the hand. "They only invited me to bring you onboard."

"You don't believe that anymore than I do, Bowhead." He said. "Anyway, I have to go meet Cass. Give my best to Lian."

"Will do. Oh, and if you could say 'Hi' to Bruce for me without making me sound drippy, go for it."

"Sure."

* * *

Dick knew something was up. He hadn't been trained by the best for nothing. He'd noticed that Bruce seemed more than a little apprehensive as the afternoon wore on and Barbara put dinner in the oven to reheat. Gordon arrived. Bruce greeted him almost absently, before resuming his brooding.

"He's fine," Barbara said in response to Dick's inquiry. "Trust me."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "I know that look," he said. "That's the 'I know something you don't know' look."

Barbara began to smile. Dick looked about, more than a little nervously. "Um… how much longer until you get the 'Dick I need to tell you something' look?"

"The only thing I have to tell you right now, FBW," she said, "is how much I love you." She leaned forward as Dick bent down.

"Get room!" Cass called from the other room, shattering the moment.

Barbara sighed. "We need a door for this kitchen. Set the table?"

Dick nodded, and moved toward the silverware drawer. "By the way, the unit directly above us is going up for sale, available first of March. Is that something that Herr Fledermaus might want to purchase on Oracle's behalf?"

Her eyes lit up. "Well, it's definitely more convenient than the cave," she grinned. "And probably less prone to police searches than this unit would be." She punched his arm lightly. "You never know when Gotham's Finest are going to turn up here with a few questions for Nightwing, after all…"

* * *

Dick raised a forkful of chicken to his lips wondering why Bruce was watching him. And why Bruce was pretending not to. It couldn't be that he didn't trust Barbara's cooking. He'd downed the soup with gusto. With a mental shrug, Dick ingested the mouthful. It tasted fine. He dug into the rice.

Bruce relaxed visibly. Barbara grinned. "Told you," she said quietly.

Dick wondered what _that_ was about. "If you were hoping to get two meals out of this," he said, "forget it. I don't think there'll be leftovers."

Judging by the reactions of the other dinner guests, it was a safe assumption. Cass was reaching for a second drumstick while Gordon had nearly finished his first helping of white meat and visually staking out another.

Bruce cautiously took a bit of the rice. His eyes widened. So did Dick's for a different reason—Bruce was… he was _grinning_ from ear to ear. Dick hadn't seen that happen in years.

"Um… Bruce?" He said. "I know Babs is a great cook and all, but it's just chicken, huh?" He turned to Barbara. "No offense!"

"None taken," Barbara said immediately. "After all," she added, her own expression mirroring Bruce's, "I didn't make this."

Dick's jaw dropped as Barbara burst out laughing. Well, having been trained by the world's greatest detective—who, up until a moment ago, Dick could have _sworn _was also the world's worst cook—it wasn't hard for him to deduce who was actually responsible for the main course. He recovered quickly. "Bruce? Whoa. Color me seriously impressed." He took another bite. It was still fine. Would wonders never cease?

* * *

Bruce tried not to show emotion as the clock hit seven. He tried not to look next to the phone by the door, where the transmitter sat receiving the signal from his ankle monitor. That was it. The curfew was in effect. He was a prisoner here for the next twelve hours. He hadn't expected to mind so much. It wasn't as though he would have made plans for this evening, had he not been ordered to observe that restriction. _But, of course, he _had_ been ordered to do so._ He took another bite of rice. Well, he was stuck here, but…

"Shouldn't you be getting ready to head out, Dick?" He asked.

Dick shook his head. "Nah, I'm off tonight. Selina and Holly are filling in, and the Titans are lending a hand. It's been pretty quiet lately, anyway."

Bruce frowned. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I know. I wanted to be here this weekend. If it's really bad, they know they can call."

"That's not the point."

"Just what _is_ the point, Bruce?" He asked wearily. "It can't be that I'm abandoning the city, because I'm not. If you're feeling a little crowded, I'm sorry. I'll head into the other room and give you some space. I _can't_ be Batman tonight—GCPD knows you're out of Arkham. They see me in the suit, they'll keep stopping me thinking I'm you. I won't get anything done."

"The monitor will confirm my whereabouts."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "You really think they'll believe you couldn't figure a way around that?"

Bruce was silent.

"As far as Nightwing is concerned," Dick continued, "in case your ice cream run didn't hammer the point home a couple of months ago, you've got a lot of friends on the force. And I don't feel like fielding their questions about why I'm out there when you're back here. It already started this afternoon." He looked at the dark-haired young woman seated across from him. "Back me up, Cass. You remember? When we were leaving the library?"

Cass nodded. "Officer Harper. New at Central. Wanted to know why you weren't with us." She said, pointing at Bruce. "Said son should be with father at time like this."

Bruce glowered. "That is nobody's business but ours. I want you to go out there tonight, Dick. That's an order."

"Sorry, Bruce," Dick said quietly. "Nothing doing. I'm staying in tonight. It's what I planned for, what I've made the necessary arrangements for, and…" He hesitated. "And the truth is, I agree with the cops on this one. I _do_ belong here tonight. It's more than me wanting to spend as much time as I can with you this weekend, although yes, that's a major part of it."

Dick took a deep breath. Inwardly, he was shaking, but his voice stayed firm. "Look. Even though the subject doesn't come up often, we all know that what we do can be dangerous. You taught me everything I didn't already know from my circus days, and it should be more than enough… but Bruce? If it isn't… if I were to go out after _this_ discussion, and something _were_ to go wrong… I know what that would do to you, and I'm sorry, but there is no _freaking_ way that I am taking _that_ chance on your first night here!"

His voice had risen on the last sentence. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew that he had gone too far.

Bruce went deathly pale. Without another word he pushed his chair away from the table and stalked into the guest bedroom. The door slammed behind him.

Dick slumped. "That really could have gone better," he mumbled.

* * *

In his room, Bruce flung himself down on the bed still seething as he mentally replayed what Dick had said to him. How dared he? Gotham came first. It always took precedence. How could Dick have even considered that Bruce would accept anything less?

_And if he did go out tonight at your insistence, and something __**did**__ happen?_

Bruce tried to squelch that thought. There was always a certain amount of risk involved in what they did. Dick would be fine, like he always was.

And if he wasn't? If Joker shot him tonight? Or if a building exploded and he found himself lying in an alley with a broken leg? Or in a coma… or worse?

Bruce bit his lip. If something like that had happened… he'd never forgive himself, no matter how much anybody tried to convince him it wasn't his fault.

He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. Someone had fluffed it, he realized with a pang. They'd done everything they could to make him feel at home. And at the first opportunity, he repaid them… how? His hands were sweating. This weekend was a mistake. It was too soon. He wasn't ready yet. All he was doing was making everyone around him miserable. They didn't deserve that. He shouldn't be disrupting their lives. No, his mind was made up. Tomorrow morning, he'd ask Dick to drive him back to Arkham. That was probably the best solution. He could try this experiment again in a month or two when he was better equipped to deal with it…

* * *

Bruce didn't remember having closed his eyes, but when they inched open again, the sky was significantly darker than it had been when he had stormed in here. It was probably after midnight. The others were likely still awake, he realized, but he didn't feel up to facing them at the moment. He couldn't fall back asleep, though.

In the end, it was Helena's wailing that got him off the bed, and sprinting to open the bedroom door. The light from the hallway stabbed his eyes when he did, and he closed them reflexively.

A moment later, when they had adjusted, he made his way back toward the living room.

The cries broke off abruptly as Bruce entered. Jim was just settling down on the sofa with the baby on his lap. She was sucking contentedly on a bottle of juice. Jim smiled down at her.

The smile remained as he looked at Bruce. "I was just about to get another piece of that pie when she woke up," he said. "Do you want to join me?"

Bruce started to demur.

Gordon stopped him. "You missed out on it earlier," he added, making it sound like a criminal offense. At Bruce's reluctant nod, he smiled. "Good choice."

"Where is everybody?" Bruce asked.

"Well," Gordon said, "Barbara's out monitoring the Titans—I understand she's got an office not far from here. Cassandra left after supper. I imagine she's doing whatever she normally does with her nights." He chuckled. "For the life of me, I can't remember whether I'm supposed to know the specifics, yet. Dick said to tell you that he wouldn't mind some company if you wanted to join him out on the balcony."

Bruce sat down. "Maybe after." Gordon was here awfully late. "Are you living here now?"

Gordon shook his head. "No, no. Either one of the kids will give me a lift back later, or I'll drive home myself when it's light out." He laughed. "Too many late nights got to be habit-forming after awhile, I suppose."

Bruce nodded. He understood that. In fact, that might work out rather well… "If you head out in the morning," he asked, "would you mind giving me a lift back to Arkham on your way?"

The older man's eyebrows drew together. "Any reason for wanting to cut this short?" He handed Helena to him. "I'm going to get that pie."

Bruce took the baby gently. "After what happened tonight…" he began to say.

"Just what _did_ happen tonight, Bruce?" Jim strode to the 'fridge to retrieve the dessert. "You two had a disagreement, but nothing so bad that the pair of you aren't on speaking terms."

"I'm reverting to type," Bruce tried to explain. "As soon as things don't fall into place the way I expect, I'm back to barking orders." He rocked the baby absently. "Maybe in a month, things will be—"

Gordon's exclamation was both pointed and unprintable. "I thought the reason behind this weekend was to ease the transition process when you pass that hearing," he snapped. "Were you really expecting it to go without a hitch?" He paused. "You were, weren't you?"

He popped the foil pie plate in the oven. "How many other skills did you nail on the first try?" He demanded. "Why in the name of all that's blasted holy would you think this would be any different?"

Bruce had no answer. Abashed, he looked down at a pair of wide blue eyes. The bottle dropped and slid to his lap. A hand shot up, reaching toward his nose. "Cut that out," he protested, stifling a laugh and lifting his head. Undaunted, the baby patted his cheek.

Gordon chuckled. "Looks like I'm not the only one who feels like slapping you sometimes," he said. "Listen, Bruce, things are going to look better in the morning if they don't already. Have the pie. Then get some sleep. Nobody here wants you back in Arkham, including you." As Bruce started to interrupt, Gordon plowed on. "If you really wanted to go back early, you wouldn't be trying to get a ride from me. All you need to do is open the front door and take the elevator down to street level. You'd be back in your cell so fast you'd think you used one of those… those… those Thanagarian boom tube whatchamacallums."

Bruce conceded the point. "Still… my being here does present a certain amount of friction," he said.

"So does mine," Jim shot back. "Parents tend to have that effect." He sighed. "Dick's on the balcony," he reminded him. "Why don't you ask him what _he_ thinks about your presence here?"

He moved to take the baby. Bruce surrendered her reluctantly. "The pie will keep," he said. "Go on."

Bruce rose to his feet. He knew that Jim was right about Dick. More than that, he knew that he'd been out of line earlier, and he wanted Dick to know it too.

He got as far as the balcony door before he froze, his hand on the knob. Someone else was out there, too.

* * *

"Almost feels like I never left," Tim said. "Except that Harrier doesn't have any name recognition to trade on in these parts."

Dick grinned. "Give it time."

The cowled figure shook his head. "Midterms start up in a couple of weeks. I don't know if I'll be able to get back here until May, when I'm done with the semester." He sighed. "It's not high school anymore. I can't coast the way I used to." He paused a moment before he added, "and I'm pulling a C-plus in criminology."

Dick gaped at him. "How is that even possible?"

"You tell me." His disgust was palpable. "The prof wants everything done _his_ way and woe betide you if you deviate…"

"And that mindset is something new to you?"

Tim didn't return the smile. "His way happens to be wrong. Or incomplete. We had a quiz last week—that's actually one plus to this course: not everything hangs on the final exam. I knew every single answer. Except that more than twenty per cent of what I wrote wasn't in the textbook. So he marked me down."

Dick let out a low whistle. "Yikes."

"Tell me about it." He pushed back the cowl. In the moonlight, his face concealed by nothing more than a domino mask, he suddenly seemed more like the boy Dick had met over five years earlier, and less like the adult he'd since become. "I wish I had Barbara's photographic memory. Between my other classes and the Titans, I haven't got time for the text." He sighed. "Sorry. Just venting. I mean, a C-plus in _criminology_?" He grimaced. "And it doesn't help that it's a five-credit course. A C-plus there is almost like getting _two_ C-plusses, as far as my GPA is concerned."

"Uh-huh."

The younger man sighed. "By the way," he said, brightening, "thanks for the vote of confidence with the Titans. Vic said you told him you knew I was up to the challenge."

Dick placed a hand on Tim's shoulder. "That shouldn't be news to you. It's not like you haven't been leading in the field before this."

"I know. But given the way I blasted Bruce before I left Gotham… I wasn't sure if you'd trust me to keep my head on straight under pressure."

"Because of what you said to him?" Dick asked. "You didn't rack up any brownie points with me, true. But if losing your temper with Bruce disqualified you for leadership, I wouldn't have been running the Titans in _my_ day." He grinned. After a moment, Tim returned the smile.

"Thought they squeezed you out after awhile."

Dick gave him a cuff on the ear. "Smartass."

Tim chuckled briefly, then sobered. "How did it go tonight?"

"On the whole?" Dick asked. "Pretty well. Did you want to come in? I can see if he's still up."

Tim appeared to be thinking it over. "Maybe next time," he said finally.

"Tim…"

"I don't hate him, okay?" The youth snapped. "But everything's mixed up. Like if I try to pretend the past didn't happen, am I… being disloyal to Steph's memory? And no… I don't honestly believe that. Part of me wants to forgive him. Maybe I already have, I don't know. But right now… right now, from what you've been saying, he's going to need our support. And the way things are, I don't know if I'm the best person to call on for that."

He ran a gloved hand through his hair. "I… tell Bruce I said 'Hi'. And tell him I'm glad he's doing better. And that I'll try to write to him when I've got more of a handle on my study time. And…" He pulled up his hood, concealing his face in shadow once more, "nothing," he finished. "I'll tell him the rest myself one of these days."

Dick seemed about to protest. But all he said was, "Take care of yourself, little bro'."

As the younger man swung out of sight, Dick relaxed his posture. Without turning around, he said, "I'm actually kind of glad you heard that."

"You knew I was there," Bruce stated.

Dick allowed a faint hint of smugness to creep into his voice. "Naturally." He turned to face the older man. "It's a beautiful night. Did you want to sit out here for a bit?" In the illumination provided by the floodlight above him, his breath was visible in the cold air. "I can wait while you grab your jacket," he added.

Bruce shook his head. "Not this time." He gestured in the direction that Tim had gone. "He's growing up."

"Yep. He calls himself 'The Harrier', these days. San Francisco's getting to be famous for him." He sighed. "If you recall, you and I went through about a year and a half when we weren't on speaking terms. We patched things up. You and Tim will too."

The older man looked away, unwilling to concede the point. "Let's go inside."

* * *

A few minutes later, three generations of crime-fighters were seated around the kitchen table, mugs of herbal tea and plates of pie and ice cream before them.

"About earlier," Bruce ventured.

Dick grinned. "Yeah, that chicken was great."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," Bruce shook his head, "but…" He looked away. "I should have appreciated what you were attempting to do earlier."

Dick cut another piece of pie. "No worries." He paused. "Um… that was just an expression."

"I know." Bruce added another spoon of softening ice cream, and watched as white rivulets pooled slowly on the still-warm pie. "I'm…" He drew a deep breath. "You were right. I was wrong."

Dick's jaw dropped. Even Jim looked stunned. "Bruce, I…" To cover his stupefaction, the younger man quickly popped a morsel of pie into his mouth. By the time he'd swallowed it, he had recovered enough to say, "I guess it had to happen sooner or later." He paused. "Thanks."

Bruce relaxed visibly. He downed a sip of tea. "I've been out of the loop," he said, "but even in my… situation, word reached me about Batman's activities. You have a handle on things, and it isn't my place to second-guess you. Not now."

"Yeah, well," Dick placed a hand on Bruce's forearm. "I'm still doing things mostly the way you did. The only major changes I've implemented have more to do with stress management…"

Unnoticed, Gordon got up, slipped on his coat, and went out to the balcony. He spared a smile for the baby, now sleeping in the playpen. In Gordon's estimation, at times like these, it was best to withdraw. After all, there were some specifics about their crime-fighting activities that he still didn't think he needed to know.

* * *

Selina came back an hour later. She left with Helena in tow, promising to see Bruce again the next time. Barbara returned shortly afterwards, stopping in the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee before driving her father home. She loved the freedom of having her customized van. It came in handy every so often.

The two men were so deep in conversation that they barely noticed. Bruce had been half-expecting, and half-dreading that Dick was about to bring up every missed school event, every cold shoulder, every blow that Bruce had inflicted on the younger man's ego—wittingly or otherwise. Once again, Dick had surprised him.

"I think I've pretty much gotten that bit sorted out," he said. "I mean, if there's anything you want to discuss, that's fine… but, I guess while I was taking charge of Gotham, and of," he flushed, "of your medical interests, and so on, I kind of accepted some responsibility for my own messes, instead of chalking them up to you." He smiled ruefully. "Truth be told, I was in a big one, right before you got arrested."

Bruce nodded. "I know about Blockbuster." He hadn't known how to broach the subject at the time. He still wasn't sure that this was the best way. Once said, however, those four words could not be unsaid.

Dick bit his lip, and studied the surface of the table for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were clear. "I wondered about that," he admitted. "I wish I'd known then. It might have made things easier." He sighed. "Or not. I guess there's really no way to be sure. I'm sorry I let you down, though."

Bruce shook his head. "You never did." He held up his hand. "Hear me out. I wasn't there. I don't know the details. They aren't important. I do know you. And I know that you would have to have been at your breaking point to act as you did." His eyes sought Dick's and held them with a blinding intensity. "Everything that you've done since then—tells me that what happened with Desmond was an aberration." He shook his head again. "There are a few people who can fall into an abyss… and climb out again. I've never dared to find out whether I was one of them." He sighed. "And I wish I could have spared you that self-knowledge."

Dick absorbed that. He nodded faintly. "Thanks. I… worked things out on my own. Had to. I didn't know when you'd be in a position to forgive me, but somewhere along the line, I forgave myself." Not everybody got the chance to face his demons a second time. Not everybody vanquished those demons. One night, on a staircase in a warehouse, Dick had. "I haven't forgotten," he hastened to add. "I never will. But I've moved on from that point."

Bruce squeezed his shoulder. "Good," he said firmly. He drew a deep breath. Whether Dick still needed to hear it or not, Bruce still felt that there was something he had to say. "I want you to know," he said, "that at no time, regardless of anything I might have said or given you reason to think in the past, did you ever fail me. If there was ever a person you let down, it was yourself." He allowed himself a wistful smile. "While I, on the other hand…"

The 'Grayson grin' was suddenly back in full force. "Pot. Kettle. Give yourself a break. What? I'm the only one around here who's allowed to mess up?" He shook his head. "You can find a million reasons to let me off the hook—even if I don't need them anymore—and it's still appreciated, don't misunderstand. Can you tell me why it is, though, that you can't let yourself find even _one_ reason to cut _yourself_ a little slack?"

Bruce leaned forward. "It's not the same thing."

"Why not?"

…

The lavender hues of sunrise were shifting more toward pink when Bruce finally headed back to his room. It felt as though he and Dick had cleared enough air between them to eliminate the city's smog problems. They hadn't resolved everything, true, and likely never would, but it was a start. A strong one.

* * *

"Did you ever get around to answering his question?" Alex asked. The doctor's hands were steepled before him, fingertips extended toward Bruce.

Bruce shook his head. "There was no answer that I could give that he would accept." He met Alex's gaze directly. "That's the crux of the matter. Isn't it?"

Alex waited. After a moment, Bruce dropped his eyes again.

"He doesn't understand. Commanders bear responsibility not just for their own actions but for those of the people under their command. They are always… always held to a more exacting standard."

Alex nodded, but he was frowning as though he didn't quite comprehend.

Bruce continued. "Batman is a vigilante. He reports to nobody." _Jim came close sometimes. Or… Alfred._ Bruce squelched the thought. "I set protocols," he winced at the word, "not just for those who join me, but for myself as well. If I don't have ground rules, the risk of… of falling into the abyss is too great. But I, more than the others, have to abide by those standards. If I were to bend them once, there would be a temptation to bend them again in the future. Better not to take that step."

Alex's frown deepened. "I'm puzzled," he admitted. "In our past sessions, you've mentioned that you regret that your son seems to hold himself to those same standards. And yet, he's been leading one team or another since he was thirteen. Why _shouldn't_ he be so exacting?"

"That's not the same thing." Bruce shifted position.

"Okay…" Alex said dubiously. "But I'm a little foggy on where the distinction lies."

"Because that's not who he is," Bruce said finally.

"He's not a leader?"

Bruce shook his head. "He's not… aloof."

"I've seen that," Alex smiled. "But a good leader has to be aloof, right?"

Bruce froze.

"I'm sorry," Alex said instantly. "I'm just trying to understand. If holding yourself to a higher standard is the price of command, and yet someone whose leadership skills you admire… either doesn't conform or shouldn't conform… which one was it, again?"

"He isn't me!" Bruce snapped. He drew his breath in sharply. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Why should he have to make the same mistakes I have?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then, his voice almost as low as Bruce's had been, Alex asked, "Why should you have to _continue_ to make them?"

* * *

The next weeks passed swiftly. Bruce continued to work with Alex, but the sessions were no longer relaxing. Despite—or perhaps because of—their intensity, Bruce sensed that the counseling was helping him and he forced himself to continue. As painful as this self-examination was, understanding its purpose made the exercise bearable.

As the weekend passes became part of his routine, Bruce found himself rehashing with Dick the topics that came up in therapy. He also brought up points that Alex had yet to raise. With Dick, he was able to skip a lot of background detail, and go directly to the heart of the matter. He also found it less painful subsequently, when the same subject came up with Alex.

The lessons in the kitchen continued. One week, Barbara showed him how to prepare a soup. Another week, it was a salad. But no weekend visit passed without Barbara serving some dish that he had helped to create. The results weren't always perfect, but so far, nothing had been an unmitigated disaster.

"Do you know the difference between 'company' and 'family'?" Barbara asked him once, when tried to forgo the weekly recipe. Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "Family pitches in. So peel and dice those potatoes and pitch them _in_ to that pot on the stove once the water boils."

Bruce sighed.

"It's for your own good," she teased. "What are you planning to do when you're out of Arkham permanently?"

"I was considering assisting the local economy by bolstering sales for various small businesses and franchises in…"

Barbara shook her head sternly. "The fast food industry has managed just fine for the last couple of years. You're not _that_ vital for them." She went back to measuring flour into the bread maker. "Besides, what are you going to do if you're in disguise and your entire cover hangs on preparing a decent meal?"

"Under those circumstances," Bruce replied wryly, "I'd tend to narrow my options to solving the case before it became an issue, or asking Clark to provide me with one of his mother's casseroles." He paused. "Or asking you for one of yours, for that matter."

Barbara laughed. "_Nice_ save. It doesn't get you off K.P., but it's still a nice one."

Bruce's lips quirked in a half-smile as he reached for a potato. "What is this going to be?"

"Depends," Barbara admitted. "If the potatoes boil just the right amount of time, they'll be potato salad. If they cook too long, we'll mash 'em. And if they're underdone, we'll pan-fry them with onion and paprika."

"Contingency plans?" Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"Hey," she grinned, "I learned from the best."

* * *

At the beginning of March, Bruce's furloughs were extended to two full days per week. He now left Arkham at 6 P.M. on Friday afternoons, returning forty-eight hours later. At that time of day, rush hour traffic could impact his curfew. Bruce knew that as long as he called in to notify his probation officer, all would be well. However, it still rankled him that he had to advise such a person as to his whereabouts. In point of fact, it rankled him to have to apprise _anybody_ as to his whereabouts—but _especially_ a probation officer.

He mentioned as much to Jim, when the older man arrived to pick him up that first Friday.

Jim smiled, a bit too broadly. "Now I _know_ you're getting better," he explained. "If the little things are starting to annoy you this much…"

Bruce's lips twitched. "Point taken."

"In any case," Gordon said, as he turned east onto a side street, "we're going to make it home with time to spare, so it won't be an issue."

"Unless there's a pile up on the Aparo," Bruce said gloomily, "and the other cars decide to take the same detour that you have."

Jim shook his head. "That won't happen. Montoya's decided to make it her business to see that we get back on time. We're about to cross Brady-Williams Boulevard. Look out the window. Notice anything?"

Bruce's eyebrows shot up. Portable barricades—the sort commonly used for crowd control during parades—blocked off the northbound and southbound lanes of the intersection. There were no cars ahead of or behind them.

Jim grinned. "You've got friends in some fairly high places. Our route is off-limits to through traffic," he smirked, "buses excepted, between the hours of five-thirty and seven PM on Fridays. We'll be home in about a half hour." Jim chuckled. "Relax."

Easier said than done, Bruce thought to himself. He was, quite frankly, stunned by this turn of events. "How?" He asked, sounding dazed.

"I guess," Jim shrugged, "it all came down to politics. Renee's on friendly terms with a few people at the mayor's office. She made some calls and…" He let his voice trail off and took his eyes off the road for an instant to glance at his passenger. The only time he'd ever seen that expression grace Bruce's face had been at the Christmas party over two months ago.

He signaled his left turn onto Repovski Street automatically, despite the absence of other vehicles behind him.

* * *

Bruce put down the receiver with some measure of irritation. Dick didn't need to ask how the phone call with Rae had gone. "Did she at least give you a timeframe?" He asked without preamble.

Bruce shook his head. "She said that while these weekend passes are sure to work in our favor when we finally _do_ present our case, right now, it's still too premature to schedule another hearing." His shoulders slumped. "She told me in November that it would be at least three months before we'd have a chance. It's now been almost five." His eyes narrowed. "Are you positive she's doing everything she can?"

"Babs is," Dick said. "Me? I trust her. More importantly, I trust Barbara's instincts on this one. But if you think we'd do better with another firm, we can do some research and—"

"No," Bruce interrupted with a sigh. "I investigated Rae thoroughly before I placed her on retainer. I won't do better."

"Maybe not," Dick agreed. "Mind you, when you get right down to it, your situation might not be within her area of expertise. She might be out of her depth."

"Granted," Bruce admitted. "Can you name an attorney who wouldn't be?"

Dick considered. "Well there's…" No, even if Cecile Horton were still practicing, he doubted she'd drop everything and come in from Central City. And after the way she'd handled Barry Allen's murder trial a few years back—Dick could still remember Wally ranting to him about her attitude after all this time—there was no way he was about to suggest her.

"Nobody," Bruce said bleakly. "At this stage, I'm not prepared to break in someone new." A sad smile flickered and faded. "Part of the reason I hired her was because she didn't jump at the chance to be on Bruce Wayne's payroll. She actually hired one of the best private investigators in the state to make sure I didn't have any skeletons in my closet."

"Oh, really?"

Bruce nodded. "She's thorough, she's ethical, and she's tenacious. I'm not swapping that for some… some ambulance chaser, whose main ambition is to publish a tell-all book about the thrill of being my lawyer."

"Don't flatter yourself," Dick retorted. "After the first hour or so, the thrill wears off." He grinned. "You're not always the easiest person to get along with, you know?"

"Point taken. It's another reason not to dismiss Rae: if the new person didn't work out, I doubt she'd return to my case."

Bruce looked away. "I should be encouraged," he continued, "that my… leash is getting longer. But…" He spun back to face Dick. "I'm _almost_ there. It's _almost_ time. Sometimes I think I'm so close to getting free of that place that—"

Dick laid a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

Bruce shook it off. "I'm fine!"

"I know."

His shoulders slumped. "I am fine. Really." He paused. "I just…" he stopped. "It's so…" He punched the wall, causing the knick-knacks on the overhead shelf to rattle.

"Bruce." Dick placed his hand on the older man's shoulder once again.

This time Bruce left it there. "Give me a minute."

"Do you want a little privacy?"

The other man appeared to think the matter over. "No. Just… just give me a minute. I…"

Dick gave the shoulder a squeeze. "I'm here." He hesitated a moment before adding, "And I'm almost as frustrated about this whole business as you are."

Bruce nodded. "Any… sane person… would be," he said, covering Dick's hand with his own.

* * *

Cass sat cross-legged on the living room floor, facing the playpen, a thin paperback book open on her lap. Inside the enclosure, Helena stood clutching the cushioned rim and babbling happily.

"D… an… Dan," she read aloud, "and To-ommm… _Tom!_ Dan and Tom grrrab S… amm's hands." She stopped. "Dan and Tom grab Sam's hands," she repeated more confidently. She leaned forward and reached for a chubby hand. "Like I grab your hand, right?" She asked gently.

Helena squealed and extended her other hand toward Cass.

"You want to come out now?" She asked. "Out?"

Helena's eyes became saucer-like. She nodded twice.

The young woman sighed, not unhappily. "I take you out, I have to watch you. Means I have to read this later." She let the book slip to the floor. "So much to be done." She lifted the baby out, then spun on her knees to face Bruce. She seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be talking to Helena as she continued. "But you don't care, you just want out now, right?"

Bruce froze.

Cass kept looking down at Helena. "Rule is, I have to finish three pages before patrol and two pages before sleep." She bounced the baby gently. "I think rule is stupid. Barbara says that's okay as long as I follow. Says one day I thank her for it." She grimaced. "Some friend, right?"

She looked up at Bruce. "I want to patrol tonight. Can you take her?"

Bruce held out his arms, smiling as Cass passed Helena forward. "Do you always talk to her like that?" He asked with a faint smile.

Cass shrugged. "She listens. Even if she doesn't understand. I think I like that more than if she understood but… didn't listen." She turned around and looked down to retrieve the book. "If someone won't listen, then no point saying anything anyway." She faced him again. "Right?"

Bruce swayed gently back and forth, rocking Helena. "I imagine you heard me in the other room just now," he said.

"Door was open. I couldn't help it." She bit her lip. "Some rules _are_ stupid."

He nodded.

"You going to follow anyway?"

He nodded again. "But I do appreciate the pep talk."

Cass blinked. "Pep ta-oh!" She smiled broadly. "Bruce, that was for _me_. To help me focus. But if it works for you too, then good."

That was the second time she'd made her point in a way that preserved his dignity. She was developing into quite the diplomat, he realized. He wondered who had been coaching her.

"Your reading seems to be coming along well," he said.

She beamed at him. "You want to hear more? Sometimes I make mistakes."

Bruce settled down on the sofa. "Understandable. You'll improve."

"I know. Practice makes perfect." Cass rolled her eyes. "E-ventually." She sighed dramatically as she flipped back to the proper page. "Tuh-hey… no. Sorry. _They. _They pu-ull Sam up…" She broke off. "It's just so… frustrating."

Bruce nodded. "I can relate."

* * *

_One week later_

"Well," Selina admitted with a laugh, "I have to admit the birthday girl _isn't_ too young for this, after all." She watched her daughter gleefully sliding cardboard boxes on the carpet, and tearing brightly colored wrapping paper to shreds. She seemed oblivious to the toys that had been inside the packaging.

Bruce stooped to pick up a green plastic 'space alien'. "Helena," he said softly. "Helena!"

Big blue eyes looked up, startled.

Bruce pressed lightly down on the toy's head and set it on the floor. The little alien beeped and hummed. Its chubby feet took a tottering step forward before it fell on its side. It lay there, burbling cheerfully as the feet churned air.

Helena giggled and dove for the toy, clambering eagerly over the boxes in her way. "Gla?" She asked, grabbing it. She put it down again, watching its feet kick.

Bruce set it upright again. It took another few steps. Helena watched with interest. All at once, she pounced. "DA!" She exclaimed, knocking the alien over again. She looked at Bruce expectantly.

He froze. "What did you say?" He looked around. "Did any of you teach her…?"

Blank stares answered him.

"Da!" She repeated. "Bla ga daladananaNA! Ba-ma-LA!" Helena babbled on, oblivious.

"Right now, it's just a sound to her," Selina said. "Of course, if you want her to _associate_ you with that particular sound…" She placed a hand on his arm. "It's up to you, Bruce. And you don't have to decide right this second."

Bruce barely heard her. "Da?" He asked gently as he crouched down so that his face was nearly level with Helena's. He set the toy upright again. "Da?"

Helena bounced up and down, giggling. "Bababab mamamaMA!" She knocked the toy over again. "Gla!"

He raised his eyebrows. "_Gla_?" He asked, as though seeking clarification.

"Lo!" She stretched out her arms to him.

"_Lo_?" Bruce repeated with mock-incredulity as he hoisted her up.

The baby gave a little sigh and lolled her head against his shoulder. "Da."

* * *

_Sunday Night_

"Thanks for the tip about the East Riders, Oracle," Selina said. Her whip snaked upward, snapping and coiling around a potted plant that was sitting on a second-floor fire escape. A moment later, another gang member was down for the count, surrounded by dry soil and pottery shards. The thug was going to have a major headache when he came to.

"No worries," the dulcet computerized voice responded. "Plenty of mooks to go around. I don't mind sharing."

Catwoman kicked another punk in the abdomen, as she lashed out with her claws toward a third. That one was lucky enough to shrink out of her range fast enough.

"Cute."

"Yeah, it was…" Abruptly, the synthetic voice gave way to a human one. "Seeing Bruce with Helena the other day."

She leaped forward, her claws extended to slice open the cheek of another gang member.

"That was something, wasn't it?" She laughed. "I always thought he'd be good with kids but…" Her tone turned serious. "Hang on a second, Red. Loose end."

Barbara waited patiently, wincing a bit as she heard the grunts and groans of the remaining 'Riders.

"All tied up," Selina announced brightly a moment later. "Where were we?"

"Bruce."

"Right. Yeah, seeing him in action… Can I ask you something?"

Barbara grinned. "Shoot."

There was a pause. Then, hesitantly, "Are you… worried about being linked to Dick?"

For a moment, Barbara was too surprised to answer. "Worried?"

"Given that everyone knows about his connection to Bruce, I mean. Does it worry you that your association with him makes you… makes you more of a target?"

Comprehension dawned. Barbara took a deep breath. "I'm used to taking a few risks," she said carefully. "I have a slew of safety precautions, and I'm always on the lookout for new ones, but at the end of the day…"

"At the end of the day," Selina blurted, "I'm happy to take those same risks. But I don't know if I can do that where Helena's concerned." She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was carefully controlled. "I told Dick before that it was up to Bruce if he wanted the two of us in his life. It's what I want. But…" She took a deep breath. "I'm not one of you Justice League types, sacrificing my life to save the planet or some garbage like that. But if it comes down to Helena's life or my hap—" She bit off the words abruptly. "As if I could be 'happy' if G-d forbid something happened to her! G-d! I don't know what to do. I—Shi—!"

"CATWOMAN!"

Silence. Then, a moment later, "Sorry. My last jump was a little short. Good thing I had my whip or things could've gotten messy." She sighed. "Maybe I should stop worrying about how dangerous having Bruce in my life could be, and re-examine myself a little more."

Barbara waited until she was sure that Selina was finished. "I don't know what to tell you," she admitted. "I mean, I know what I _want_ to tell you. Namely, that I can set you up with the best security system money _can't_ buy—because half of it isn't on the market yet. Then, I could remind you that Catwoman has made a few enemies also, and that it's equally likely that Helena could be targeted because of a caper you pulled off years ago. I could go on to point out that with my father being the commissioner—former commissioner now—as well as Batman's best friend, I was a target long before I ever started going out with Dick Grayson. All of that's true." She took a deep breath. "It's also true that you have a daughter who is barely one year old. And that no security system is impregnable."

"So you think that I…"

"What _I_ think isn't important. Not this time."

"Which means you think I should keep Bruce in our lives," Selina stated. "But that I'm not exactly being unrealistic given the risks involved."

It was now Barbara's turn to pause. "Correct," She admitted. "One thing, though. If anything _were_ to happen to Helena, and Bruce found out about it? Do you think for one minute that he wouldn't find whoever was responsible, no matter where they were hiding?"

Selina nodded to herself. Barbara was right. But then she heard herself asking "But would he find them in time?"

Barbara had no answer.

* * *

Firefly darted into the shadows when he heard footsteps approaching. He _thought_ he remembered which corridors were under lighter surveillance. They couldn't thwart him now—he was nearly done.

He held his breath as the orderlies tramped by. Then, after double-checking that the hall was clear, he darted into the stairwell. He emerged, panting, on the third floor. He'd had a busy week, but his preparations were nearly at an end. This was the last device he needed to plant.

His crepe-soled shoes barely audible on the Epoxy flooring as Firefly stole past the administrative offices. In this place, they were sure to be either locked or occupied. No, what he needed was—_Perfect_! Next to the Men's room was an unlocked supply cabinet, containing stores of bathroom tissue and paper towels. Safe items. Harmless. Lynns pulled a cell phone out of one pocket, and a wad of plastique out of another. With a speed born of practice, he pried open the phone casing and set about turning the communications device into a rather nasty explosive.

He had it all planned to the last detail. The system was foolproof. Thirty-two cell phones. In two days time, shortly after eleven o'clock at night, as the fireworks festival drew to a close, a routine that he had programmed into the final cell would dial the numbers of two of the other phones. Moments later, two warehouses, which faced each other on opposite sides of the Sprang River would go up in a pyrotechnic extravaganza. Five minutes after the first detonations, the second pair would lend their flames to the display. Five minutes after that—the third. And so on, until, forty-five minutes after the beginning of his display, Arkham would glow—a flaming beacon in the night sky. For once, this dull, dreary, depressing hellhole would brighten the countenances of all that beheld it. It would be glorious. It would be stupendous. It would be—

"What are you doing?"

The thin nasal voice startled him and he quickly shoved the phone into the middle of the neatly-stacked rolls of toilet paper. _No! He was so close…_

"Who are you?"

Shakily, Firefly turned around.

Jeremiah Arkham sniffed. "Why, Garfield. I must say, I'm surprised to see _you_ here. Came back on your own, did you?" He brandished a long stun baton. "My office, Garfield. I'll have the orderlies collect you from there." His eyes narrowed. "What were you doing, poking about in there?"

Lynns didn't answer.

"No matter," Arkham sniffed again. "I'm sure security will be able to deal with it momentarily. Shall we?"

Firefly thought furiously. If he could only program this last device, it would all be worth it. He just needed a minute. He let his shoulders slump in apparent defeat as he preceded Arkham down the corridor. As he neared the door to the stairwell, he quickened his pace. Before the administrator could react, the arsonist had pushed open the door and dashed down two flights of stairs.

He emerged in the medium security section. Lynns grit his teeth. He didn't have much time. He had to program the cell phone number into the dialer file. He could worry about the timer later. He pulled out his own personal cell. All the other phone numbers were stored here. The last one was 555-1… what was it? 555-1…

"There he is!" Two guards came charging toward him.

Lynns turned to flee. All at once, he remembered the number! Barely paying attention to where he was going, he typed as he ran. They were gaining on him, but he had the number keyed. Now if he could just…

He pitched forward suddenly as his feet encountered an uneven patch of flooring. The phone slipped out of his hand and Lynns landed heavily upon it. The guards were there immediately.

One of them nudged him with his foot. "Get up. Now."

Lynns struggled painfully to comply. He managed to rise to one knee, and then reached to retrieve the phone. He blinked. His jaw went slack. No… no, it couldn't be! When he'd landed on the phone, he'd somehow enabled the program and the phone was now dialing the other numb—

"I said get up!" The guard nudged him again, harder.

Lynns rolled and sprang to his feet. "We have to get out of here! Now, before this place goes up in smoke!" He'd meant to call in an anonymous warning just before he ignited the first warehouses. It wasn't supposed to happen like this! It wasn't…

The other guard hauled him up by his shirtfront. "Shut up! Quit raving! Now, we're going to take a little walk to…"

"Hey!" A voice shouted from further down the hallway. "Look at that! There's a warehouse fire on the Sprang! Wait a second… there's two of 'em!"

"I know, you idiot!" Lynns screamed. "And we're next! Take me to Doctor Arkham! He'll believe me! We have to evacuate!" There was still time. If he could just get back to the supply cabinet and disarm the phone. "I want to talk to Arkham!"

The other patients were waking up now, adding their shrieks to his.

"There's another one!" The voice at the window called.

Lynns froze. Another… but it hadn't been five minutes yet. It couldn't have been... "Oh. My. G-d." He whispered. "They're going off too soon." Panic gave him strength. He twisted out of the guard's grasp, tearing the shirt as he did. He raced back up the stairs. He had to get to the cabinet, FAST!

One floor up, he was just rounding the bend to his destination when he heard an all-too-familiar ring tone. He shrank back in horror. It was too late…

* * *

In the Scituate—an area once known colloquially as the 'Sports Quarter', Batman listened attentively to the conversation coming through over a small transmitter. The tip he'd received from one of his regular sources had been good. The Gotham Knights pitcher was indeed being pressured to throw the upcoming game.

The Dark Knight set his jaw firmly. Protection rackets… blackmail… he had relatively low tolerance for such things.

"Batman!" Oracle's voice practically shrieked in his ear. "Drop what you're doing and get to Arkham, stat!"

"What?"

"Turn on the radio. Any station—it doesn't matter. The warehouse district is in flames and… Batman… so's the asylum." Her voice faltered. "Dick… Arkham's burning as we speak, and I-I haven't heard any reports yet to confirm who's made it out."

Dick felt as though he'd been sucker-punched. "Copy that, Oracle," he said faintly. "I'm on my way."

_I'm coming, Bruce. Hang on. I'm coming…_


	13. Chapter 13: When Push Comes To Shove

_Every time you get up  
And get back in the race  
One more small piece of you_

_Starts to fall into place-yeah _

'Cause when push comes to shove  
You taste what you're made of  
You might bend til you break  
'Cause it's all you can take  
On your knees you look up  
Decide you've had enough  
You get mad, you get strong  
Wipe your hands, shake it off  
Then you stand… 

_Blair Daly and Daniel Overton, "Stand"

* * *

_

"Stand" written By Blair Daly and Daniel Overton. Recorded by Rascal Flatts on their _Me and My Gang_ CD. (Lyric Street, 2006)

Thanks to Komikbookvixen, Christine Wood and Lisa Tomlinson for help with fire protocols and safety. Special thanks to Anna for information on smoke inhalation.

Thanks to Kathy Brignole and Debbie Reed for the beta!

* * *

**Chapter 13: When Push Comes to Shove**

When the fire alarm went off, Bruce was in his cell reviewing his personal file. Rae had given it to him to peruse when she'd visited earlier. Bruce had to admit that it made for interesting reading. Some of it was wildly inaccurate, of course—Rae had urged him to indicate what points he disagreed with, and provide her with his version of the facts where necessary. He was in the middle of doing so when the loud clanging of the alarm bell brought him back to his surroundings with a disagreeable start.

He ran his hand against the cell door from top to bottom as he sniffed the air cautiously. There was no smell of smoke, and the metal slab was cool to his touch. It occurred to him that the alarm might be a drill, but if it was, then it was the first such exercise he'd experienced at Arkham. No, this was probably the real thing. And if it was, then the staff was going to have its hands full evacuating the rest of the inmates, while making sure that they didn't wander further afield. Bruce forced himself to face the possibility that, in the chaos and confusion, it might be awhile before anybody remembered that he was confined down here. He didn't panic, though. This time, Crane's fear gas was absent from the equation. He knew how to handle himself under these circumstances. Hot air rose, cold air sank—it was rudimentary physics. If the fire had broken out on a higher floor—as it almost certainly had, since he couldn't smell smoke yet—there was a good chance that emergency crews would have things under control long before the situation became a problem. And there were still some measures that he could take in his current circumstances.

In one swift motion, Bruce jerked the top blanket off of his bed.

With the flannel institutional blanket in one hand, he dashed to the shower alcove and dropped the bedding on the tiled floor. Turning on the tap, he let the water spray full-force, until the fabric was saturated.

They were much heavier on the return trip. Bruce was in the middle of arranging the flannel blanket against the bottom of the door when he heard footsteps approaching.

"Come on, Wayne!" A voice commanded. "We've got to get out of here."

Bruce spun back to the bed and stripped off the cotton sheets. They were probably unnecessary at this point, but better safe than sorry. When the cell door opened, he had one of them draped over his shoulders like a shawl. The other hooded his face.

The guards at the door beckoned impatiently. "Let's go!" One of them snapped. "You don't need that stuff!"

"I will if the fire spreads," Bruce countered.

"There's no time to argue," the second guard said. "Look. This way, if any of the others spot him, they probably won't know who we've got. Come on."

* * *

_Earlier_

The cells on the upper levels opened automatically, clear Plexiglas shielding sliding back into brick housings. The inmates emerged, milling in confusion. The alarm kept blaring, its foghorn-like blasts adding to the chaos.

Over the hubbub of voices, Harvey Dent heard someone with a megaphone barking orders—mostly along the lines of 'remain calm' and 'line up'. If this was truly an emergency situation—and the cells wouldn't have unlocked unless it was—then… Harvey's eyes grew wide. There was a time to take advantage of a situation, but there was also a time to ensure that others wouldn't be tempted to do the same. And he had no intention of being trampled in a mass panic.

The guards were trying ineffectively to get everybody to line up by the fire doors. Harvey pushed his way through the crowd, until he was several paces away from the cell where Humphrey Dumphler resided. As expected, it was empty, its occupant currently one of the many inmates in the hallway. Harvey contrived to make it appear as though the press of bodies pushed him inside. It only took a moment for him to take hold of the larger man's quilted jacket. For what Dent was planning, he definitely needed something that would fit loosely. He slipped the garment on, then fought his way back into the corridor again and moved on.

A few feet before the emergency exit, he stopped and removed a potentially dangerous object from its usual place. There was no way that he was going to allow Joker, Killer Croc, or any one of a host of other homicidal maniacs to have access to a fire axe. It would have been nice to get the second one from the other corridor, but there was no time, and the inmates would be evacuated via the doors directly ahead of him. He started back toward the others.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped and pressed against one of the wooden office doors. It was recessed far enough back from the surrounding wall that Harvey knew he was not easily visible to anyone looking down the hallway. He waited. A few moments later, the guards came along, herding a straggling column of inmates toward him. Harvey waited until slightly more than half of the crowd had filed past, before he muscled his way into the group. The oversized jacket concealed the axe nicely. If the security staff were to notice it missing, they would likely assume that one of their own had retrieved it. Dent smiled. The evacuation would proceed with minimal chaos… and once safely on the ground, if the coin toss came up right, the weapon would give him added leverage should he opt to leave the premises.

_Two birds with one stone_, he smiled. _He rather liked the sound of that._

_

* * *

Now_

They took him out a side door. There were no other inmates in view, although Bruce could hear a commotion coming from around the corner of the building.

One guard turned to the other. "I'll stay here. They need you in the back."

"We need both of you," another voice broke in. "We've got every inmate out in the yard, right now—we need all the personnel we can get to keep an eye on them."

"But he—" The first guard turned to the newcomer, while gesturing wildly toward Bruce.

"Yeah, who's gonna watch Batsy?" The second guard echoed.

The newcomer, who clearly seemed to hold some authority over the other two, rolled his eyes. "Idiots. First," he stated, focusing a glare directly at Bruce, "Wayne's only a couple of weeks or so away from getting a competency hearing scheduled. You really think he's gonna jeopardize that? Second," his voice gained in both sarcasm and volume as he continued, "around that corner we have, Joker… Scarecrow… Two-Face… Riddler… Mad Hatter… Poison Ivy… Killer Croc… If that lot makes it into the city, Gotham's gonna look like it did right after Cataclysm. Wayne breaks out?" He snorted. "We'll probably have a few more petty crooks in Blackgate before dawn." The guard pointed upward.

The others followed the direction of his finger. Bruce blanched as he saw flames and smoke issuing forth from several top story windows.

"Now," the man continued, "unless you want the rest of the city to look like that, you'll get your asses back with me on the double."

He turned to Bruce. "As for you," he snapped, "If I have to keep assigning security guards to the lower level for _another_ six months because you thought it was a good chance to slip off, I will not be pleased. Clear enough?"

Bruce blinked. Behind the snarl, the man's tone was almost… friendly. A brief smile touched his lips.

The guard grinned back. The moment passed. "Right!" He barked, camaraderie gone. "Stay put." He followed his subordinates at a run.

Bruce nodded slowly to himself. Then he stepped back further from the burning building. The flames appeared to be slowly spreading downward. His eyes panned slowly along the upper wall. Panned and snapped back. Was he imagining…? His expression hardened. No. No, he wasn't. He _had_ seen a face at the window. Someone was trapped up there.

* * *

"All of you," the guard shouted into the megaphone, "sit down and _SHUT UP!_"

Some of the inmates milling in the exercise yard obeyed at once. Others made obscene gestures or ignored the command entirely.

Lounging unobtrusively against the wall, Harvey Dent watched the scene before him with almost clinical detachment. As always, he was of two minds about his circumstances: he was certainly grateful to be out of the fire, but he couldn't say that he was enjoying the current developments. The last time Arkham had been destroyed, he'd been sent to Blackgate. That wasn't going to happen again. He flipped his coin onto his wrist, and examined the result in the moonlight. He smiled. He just needed to wait for an opportune moment.

Dent shook his head, bemused. A small group, Joker prominent among them, solemnly intoned, "Our house… our house… our house is burning down! Our house… our house… our house is bur…"

The guard lowered the megaphone and turned to one of his subordinates. "Take him," he ordered coldly.

Haney raised his tranquilizer gun, and with a smile of savage joy, fired two darts into the knot of chanting inmates.

Joker slumped to the ground, eyes glazing over. "Why, Danny-boy!" He said woozily, "I never knew you cared…"

"Anyone else need extra sedatives?" Megaphone demanded.

Heads shook, as the other inmates sank slowly to the earth.

In the confusion, nobody noticed as Two-Face edged away from the crowd, and around the corner. The yard was dimly lit, and it wasn't much of a trick to hide in the shadows. He didn't have far to the bridge and freedom and… He stopped. The Sprang River was a corridor of orange flames. Cresting atop the walls of fire, he could see glowing reds, blues, greens, pinks, and whites. That was bizarre. Those colors were supposed to burn closer to the heart of a blaze, not along its edges. For a moment he stared, mesmerized. Then he shook himself. He could appreciate the aesthetics later. He jerked his eyes away from the flames, and grimaced. Staring at them had just about destroyed his night vision. That settled matters: he'd have to circle the asylum's perimeter wall and swim _behind_ the institution, across the Gotham River toward the power company on the mainland. The Sprang was going to be crawling with emergency crews, and he was sure to be spotted. Fortunately, he always had _two_ escape routes.

He forced himself not to look at the blazing warehouses again. Instead, he focused on the fire escape several yards away.

All at once, he leaned forward. Someone was inching toward the metal structure, someone cloaked and hooded.

Dent sucked in his breath. _Only one person would be that…_ He flipped his coin again and nodded at the result. Well, that decided matters rather neatly…

* * *

Bruce took hold of the metal railing resolutely. He knew that at some point between the ground and the roof, he'd need to find a way inside the building. The windows, of course, were all barred. The emergency doors were not meant to open from the outside. He only hoped that the skylight would still be accessible.

"We were not expecting to encounter you here."

Bruce whirled. "Harvey," he stated flatly.

Dent shook his head, bemused. "You're going back inside?"

"There's at least one person trapped upstairs," Bruce explained. As he spoke, he caught sight of a white piece of fabric hanging limply from a window at the far end of the building. It looked as though someone had pushed a lab-coat sleeve through the bars.

The former DA's eyes narrowed. "Only one doctor would be on that floor this late at night," he stated. "Everyone else would have gone home by now."

Bruce squared his shoulders and turned back to the fire escape.

Dent seized his arm. "You're going back in there… to save _him_?"

"I don't have time to argue," Bruce snapped as he shook loose.

A slow chuckle emanated from Harvey Dent's throat. "We never quite believed it," he said, "but we are finally convinced. You _are_ insane."

"Your point?" Bruce demanded as he clambered up a few steps.

Suddenly Dent was extracting something from beneath his jacket—a jacket that, Bruce realized, was at least three sizes too large—how had Harvey managed that? The heavyset man passed something up to him. "Take this, at least."

The smooth wooden handle was heavy in Bruce's grasp. He nearly dropped it when Dent let go. To his astonishment, he was holding… "A fire axe? Harvey, how did you...?"

Two-Face shrugged. "When the alarm went off, all the cells opened. We knew that anarchy would be unwise under the circumstances, but we realized that others might not share our views. So, we took steps. The guards never noticed."

Bruce hefted the axe. "Thanks."

Half of the other man's face smiled. The other remained frozen in its perpetual scowl. He turned to go.

"Harvey?" Bruce hesitated. "Why are you doing this?"

Dent shrugged. "We've been waiting over two years for you to make your next move in our biweekly chess game. It is to our advantage to see you back safely." He smiled. "And of course, 'good heads'."

"Of course," Bruce replied skeptically.

The other man sighed. "We appreciate that you never looked upon us as a freak after we were attacked. Not many people from the old days stood by us. That matters to us. That matters a great deal."

"Ah." Bruce understood that. "Thanks."

Dent shook his head. "Don't thank us. Thank the coin."

"I have to get up there," Bruce replied, turning abruptly.

The other man watched him climb. He was about to give the coin another flip, when he realized that he didn't need to in this case. "Good luck, Batman," he murmured. Then he stalked off toward the main gate.

He was glad that he'd disposed of the axe. He absolutely loathed abandoning his possessions, but the thing only would have weighed him down had he tried to swim with it.

* * *

The lock on the emergency door yielded to several sharp blows with the axe. Bruce slammed his shoulder against the splintering wood, and it too gave way. A wave of warm air greeted him. No open flames, though he could smell smoke, as well as the acrid odor of burning rubber. He pulled the edge of the sheet forward so that it covered his mouth and nose. For a moment, he hesitated. The smoke was even deadlier than the fire. He had no way of knowing how many people were trapped up here, or where they were. _Or whether they were still al… _he squelched that thought brutally. He couldn't let himself think that way. They were alive until he knew differently. He moved ahead, through a set of double doors.

He was standing in a corridor, with offices on either side of him. Ahead was another door. He put his hand on it experimentally. The metal was warm to his touch, though not unbearably so. He drew a deep breath and pulled the door slowly open, bracing himself for another blast of warmth. It came immediately, and with greater intensity than the first one had. He closed his eyes by reflex, opening them just in time to feel another burst of hot air as a door further down the corridor opened. Two people were walking toward him.

Batman had a fold of his cape wrapped around another man who was walking somewhat hunched over. The vigilante was wearing a Scott Pack—a self-contained breathing apparatus, as well as a Cevelar helmet and face shield. There were fresh tears in the bat-suit, and Bruce thought he detected first degree burns on the exposed flesh that showed through. The other man was wearing a close-fitting red-and-yellow mask. The oval lenses gave him a bug-eyed appearance. He had a gas mask pressed to his mouth and nose. Bruce's eyes narrowed. Garfield Lynns' presence here couldn't be a coincidence. His jaw set. He took another look at the gas mask. There was a bat-insignia on the device. That was surprising. Bruce could have _sworn_ that Firefly's suit had its breathing gear built in, but apparently not…

"You're alright?" Bruce asked harshly.

Batman nodded. He seemed to be saying something, but Bruce couldn't make the muffled words out over the crackling of the flames in the distance.

Bruce shook his head.

The Dark Knight nodded. Immediately one hand came up, signing his query: _Is there a way out behind you? Talk. I'll lip-read._

"Fire escape," Bruce smiled. "It should still be solid."

Batman nodded. _Got it. Let's get out of here._

Bruce acquiesced, stifling a momentary twinge of disappointment. He wasn't needed after all. Dick had everything under control. He should be relieved. This wasn't his fight anymore.

"Doctor Arkham!" The second man had removed his gas mask. "He's still in there!"

"What?!" Bruce and Dick spoke simultaneously.

"He-he was up here when the bomb went off. He was behind me, but then…" he gulped, "I think he might have been in his office…"

Batman was signing again. _I met up with him just in time to see a chunk of the roof cave in a few feet behind him. If Arkham was on the other side of that, then…"_

"I'll find him." Bruce started forward. "I know where the office is."

The Caped Crusader shook his head. _It's too risky. I don't have another set of gear for you._ He gave his companion a shove in Bruce's direction. _Get Firefly out of here. I'll take care of Jeremiah_.

His protest died on his lips. Dick was in better shape, better equipped… For a few moments, it had seemed to Bruce as though the last two years hadn't happened. He'd been back—in the thick of it—with scarcely more than his wits for weapons. It had felt so… right. But charging into a fire with nothing but a couple of sheets for protection when there was someone else nearby with the appropriate skills and gear? He had suspended partners for less.

He gripped Firefly's shoulder, pulling the other man forward. "Be careful," he said.

Batman nodded. _Always.

* * *

_

Dick pulled his cape free of another piece of falling plaster. At times like this, he loathed that piece of flowing black fabric. Sure, it added to the mystique, but _it kept getting in the way, damn it!_

A thought occurred to him. Swiftly, he unfastened the cape from the cowl. Retracing his steps, he dropped the garment in a heap at the foot of the doorframe. If it was slowing him down this much, he was better off leaving it behind.

_And if a certain somebody was stubborn enough to try to come after him, well, the cape _was_ comprised of several layers of Nomex, after all. That was sure to provide better protection than a couple of cotton blankets!_ Dick thought to himself, as he slid the second thermal-imaging camera under the fabric. When he'd made a stop at one of the satellite caves to pick up the fire-fighting gear, he'd grabbed whatever extra equipment he could carry conveniently. The special uniform alone weighed close to seventy-five pounds, so taking a spare suit had been out of the question. He sighed. At this point, he wasn't sure whether he wanted Bruce to stay behind, but ultimately it wasn't up to him. And if Bruce was going to come charging in anyway, the least Dick could do was give the man a fighting chance.

* * *

"Easy." Bruce guided Lynns back the way he'd come. Smoke was beginning to seep toward them. If Dick didn't get back… _Dick was fine. He'd probably had another way out. There was no reason to believe that he'd double back this way. _Bruce tried to ignore the persistent question of why Dick would have been coming his way in the first place, if the other egress was still accessible.

A whoosh of cool air greeted them as they found their way outside. Bruce's skin prickled as the breeze hit it. He rested one hand on the fire escape railing. It was still solid, still cool to his touch. He hesitated, torn between wanting to see Lynns safely down and wanting to wait for Dick.

After a moment, Lynns nudged him. "Er…"

Bruce shook himself out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said, feeling more than a little embarrassed. "Can you climb down?"

The other man nodded.

Bruce took one more look behind. At that moment, a large timber fell, partially obscuring the door at the far wall that led to the corridor. There was probably nothing to worry about. Dick likely had another way out, and even if he didn't, he should be able to shift that beam. _But if Jeremiah's trapped on the other side, who knows how much smoke he's inhaled, or how badly he needs medical help? If Dick has to take time to clear the door, could those seconds make a difference?_

"Mister?" Lynns touched his sleeve. "You okay?"

Bruce took a deep breath. "Give me the gas mask. And the gloves," he added.

"What?"

Bruce pointed to the items in question.

"You're going back in there, aren't you?"

"Only if I have to," Bruce replied. "Give them to me."

"Are you freaking cra—what am I saying? This _is_ Arkham, after all."

Bruce didn't smile. "I'm aware of that. Hand them over." He paused. "Your costume… it usually has breathing tanks?"

Lynns sighed. "They're elsewhere. I couldn't fit them under the uniform." He indicated the custodian's coveralls that he wore. With a sigh, he surrendered the items. "Just as well," he muttered. "The colors are better outside. Right here in the thick of it, it's too dark to see anything worthwhile."

Bruce's hand froze. "Excuse me?"

Lynns blanched at his tone. Evidently, his companion was not a patron of the arts. Still, perhaps he could get through to the man… if he let his handiwork speak for him. "Look!" he pointed to the river. Ignoring Bruce's horrified expression, he gestured expansively to the twin walls of flame along the banks of the Sprang. "It's even more dazzling than I thought it would be. I didn't know if I had the right balance of strontium and copper, but that purple is so perfect! And that green! I dropped my notes here somewhere, but if I can remember the exact proportions of barium chloride, I…"

With an animalistic snarl, Bruce spun the shorter man around. Heavy hands clamped around Firefly's cheeks, forcing him to see his handiwork. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" He snapped. "How many lives you might have cost tonight?" He waved his hand in a wide arc to encompass the asylum and the waterfront. _"What possessed you?"_

Firefly gulped. "I thought it would be…" he stammered, "pretty..." He met Bruce's gaze, as though he expected to find some sort of compassion. He didn't. Lynns took a step backward and nearly slipped from the landing. His arms windmilled frantically. A hand grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it so hard that it would probably leave a bruise. "I…" Words failed him. "I… I…"

Disgust mingled with rage. "GO!" Bruce thundered. "Get out of my sight! Just get down those steps and surrender to the guards, _or I'll make you wish you had. GET DOWN THERE!_" He raised his other hand as though to strike.

Lynns cringed and began to make his way down as swiftly as he dared.

Bruce watched him descend. Then he stepped back into the burning asylum. He'd just wait here for a moment to make sure Dick was alright. That was all. Just a moment. Just a… _Who did he think he was kidding?_ Cautiously, keeping a watchful eye for any hint of collapsing walls or ceiling, he started forward.

* * *

Bruce dropped to his hands and knees, keeping his head slightly above shoulder height. It wasn't just the smoke he had to worry about. The fire was releasing carbon dioxide as well. The air was acrid, making him cough, much as he tried to avoid the worst of the heat and smoke. He had to keep going; he had to find Dick. Because, if Firefly had set that many conflagrations tonight, then there was no telling when—or if—emergency crews would arrive on the scene. And if Dr. Arkham _was_ trapped inside, then… he didn't have very long. And Dick was going to need help getting him out in time.

The lenses of the gas mask were fogging up, making it hard for him to avoid obstacles. As he entered the next room, a large piece of ceiling plaster fell a hairsbreadth from his left hand. He jerked it away on reflex, and his palm came down on something that yielded easily to his touch. Bruce held up the black fabric, thunderstruck. _It couldn't be._ Tentatively, he held the edge of it to his unprotected forehead. He _knew_ that material—would know it even in pitch blackness—even in his sleep, or even in the deepest recesses of whatever madness he'd succumbed to before coming to Arkham.

He grabbed the cape and draped it over himself like a burnoose. It was a piece of fabric—Nomex sandwiched between layers of Kevlar—nothing more, nothing less. And yet, it seemed to imbue him with a confidence he hadn't felt this evening until this very moment. A thin smile spread over cracked lips.

"Thanks, Dick," he whispered as he picked up the heat-vision camera. He held it awkwardly against the lenses of the gas mask, and waited until he was sure he was comfortable with the visual display. Then he pressed onward.

* * *

Dick moved swiftly down the corridor. Jeremiah's office _would_ have to be further down the hallway. A chunk of the ceiling fell inches in front of him. He cursed under his breath as he stepped over it. Ahead of him, another pair of portals loomed. Like the first, they were made of lightweight metal, with thick windowpanes laced with chicken wire and set at eye-level. He pushed the doors open. The designer's idea might have had some merit under different circumstances: in case of a hostile party, the doors could be locked by remote control, effectively trapping the person in a small section of the corridor. Here and now? It was an irritant.

His destination was through the next set of doors and then the second office on his left. With a sigh, he bounded forward, wondering whether he shouldn't have taken the left-hand corridor instead of retracing his original path.

As he pushed open the final set of doors, he groaned. A pile of debris perhaps three feet high blocked the way ahead. He debated whether to turn back. There was a loud crack. Dick whirled. He pushed open the doors through which he'd just come. Behind the next set of doors, he could make out a bright orange glow. The roof must have fallen in that section. Great. He lifted his halligan tool—a combination axe, crowbar, and spike—and attacked the plaster and timbers that blocked the path ahead. He hoped that Bruce hadn't followed him, because right at this moment, Dick wasn't sure that he knew how he was going to get out of here.

* * *

Bruce frowned. The fire was getting worse. His gas mask wasn't going to help him deal with the rising heat, and even with the imager, it was hard to be sure where he was going. The burning ceiling tiles were a constant hazard.

All at once, he smiled. _That… that just might work…_ He pushed open the door to the stairwell. He'd studied the blueprints of the asylum years ago, committing the floor plans to memory. He knew that there were three other emergency staircases in this wing of the asylum alone. One of them was located only a few yards away from Jeremiah's office. He took a quick inventory of his equipment. Kevlar-Nomex cape, check. Kevlar-Nomex gloves, check. Gas mask… thermal imager… he nodded. Even if he resurfaced in the middle of the fire, he _should _be able to manage for a moment or two. It was worth the risk.

He dashed down the stairs.

* * *

Batman used the crowbar end of his halligan tool to shift the last of the timbers aside. He checked the gauge on his breathing tank. Another six minutes or so and he'd have to switch to the third tank. Great. His thermal imager told him that the walls were getting hotter. As for the ceiling… he pressed against the wall as more chunks of plaster began to fall. His eyes grew wide. There was a bright spot on the wall facing him, which was spreading quickly. He had to locate Arkham—and fast—and get out of here.

He forged ahead steadily. One office door was wide open. The smoke and debris made it hard to get his bearings, but he thought this might—he smiled. In the middle of the heat-signature, there was a cooler spot. Someone _was _in there. Batman took a deep breath and entered the room.

_Better make that two someones._ Dick wasn't sure whether he was upset that Bruce had decided to brave the fire despite the obvious danger, or whether he was merely irritated that his mentor had made it into the room ahead of him.

Tentatively, he reached out and tapped the other man on the shoulder. Bruce nodded as he continued to drag Jeremiah out from under the desk. The director had evidently taken refuge there. Batman took note of the smoldering debris that coated most of the furnishings in the room. Arkham had leaped for the only shelter he could. Dick realized that it was a lucky thing that there were no papers or other flammables lying around. The rug had been rolled up—it looked like Jeremiah had tried to wedge it under the door to keep the smoke out. The fire hadn't found much ready fuel in here—the large heavy pieces of furniture were slow to catch. The smoke was a more immediate danger.

He could see at a glance that Arkham wasn't in good shape. The administrator had evidently stayed close to the ground, avoiding much of the smoke for as long as could. It had kept him alive until now, but the smoke and heat were too strong, and the man was beginning to succumb. Batman wished he'd brought an extra radio for Bruce—the ambient noise made it difficult to talk and lip-reading was out of the question with the breathing apparatus.

Bruce locked his gaze with Dick's. One hand came up, gloved fingers signing the words: _Need to get him downstairs… less smoke… Stairwell… right… 5 yards._

Batman nodded. _Got it. You okay?_

_Fine,_ he signed. Then immediately he doubled over, wheezing.

"Bruce!" He cursed himself for several kinds of idiot. Bruce couldn't hear him. And he hadn't been wearing a gas mask when Dick had found him. Which meant he'd already been inhaling the smoke. They had to get out, fast. But… Batman wasn't sure whether hurrying would make things worse.

Bruce's coughing ceased. Batman waited for him to look up. _I'll take Jeremiah_, he signed. _Walk ahead. I need you to show me the stairs._

Bruce shook his head. _You lead. I need to make another sweep. Make sure everyone else is out._

Dick blinked. What in the world… Comprehension dawned. Bruce wanted him to get Jeremiah out, even if that meant abandoning… under the breathing apparatus Batman's jaw set. _I'm not leaving you here, Bruce. Not a chance._

_Jeremiah needs—_

_Yeah he does. So do you. And if it's a choice between you and him—_

_Then there is no choice. You have to get him out._

There were some words that Bruce had omitted from the syllabus when he'd taught Dick ASL. Luckily, the younger man reflected, he'd obtained a saltier vocabulary from one Joseph Wilson. Batman's hand formed the profanity almost instinctively.

_F--- that! I'm not going without you, Bruce. We can stand here and argue or you can—_

Bruce made a cutting motion with his hand, even as another paroxysm of coughing seized him. _Every second you waste means Arkham's chances grow slimmer. I'll only slow you down. Get out of here!_

Dick considered. _Is that what you would do if our positions were reversed?_

Bruce flinched.

Dick pressed his point. _Bruce? If you were standing in my place, would YOU leave ME?_

Bruce looked away. Dick advanced a step, and placed his hand on the other man's shoulder. Then he took another two steps forward to stand in front of his former mentor. _Bruce?_ He signed,_ I'm not leaving this place without you. The longer we stand here arguing, the worse our chances get. We can debate this until the roof falls in on us or you can show me where the damned stairs are, and we can all get out of here._

Bruce shook his head, defeated. _Alright. We'd better hurry._

_I know. _Dick lifted Jeremiah and slung him over one shoulder. Then he placed his free hand on Bruce's arm. _Lead on._ As he shifted the director to a more comfortable position, he managed to turn on the cowl radio and relay instructions to Barbara.

* * *

"You got it, Batman," Oracle said. "Be caref—"

The channel clicked off.

"I love you," Barbara said to the empty room. What with all the other fires in the area, it had taken longer than usual, but emergency units had finally arrived on the scene. She called up the voice alteration program and checked the view from the asylum's exterior cameras. Captain Montoya was on the scene. Barbara smiled. At least she didn't have to waste time establishing her bona fides.

"Montoya here," the shift commander's voice came crisply over her speaker.

Oracle made sure that the software was running. "This is Batman," she spoke into the microphone. As expected, the gravelly tones that issued from the speakers were a good enough imitation to fool all but the most-sophisticated voice-recognition programs. "I'm in Stairwell 2-C, second-floor landing and moving down. There are two people with me in need of medical assistance."

The detective nodded. She stepped out the camera's range for a moment. Oracle could hear her relaying instructions to someone else. A moment later she stepped back into view.

"There's a team closing in on your position now, Batman," she said. "They should be there any second."

"Acknowledged. Batman out."

Oracle closed the frequency with a relieved smile. She opened a new channel. "Firefighters and paramedics are on their way," she said without preamble. "How are you holding up?"

"Jeremiah's in worse shape," Dick said. "But they've both breathed in some of the gas and smoke, and the heat's draining."

"I've don't have visual," she admitted.

"You're lucky. This is not a pretty sight."

The smile froze on her face. Granted, under these circumstances, Dick could be forgiven for sounding a little tense but… "How's Bruce?"

"Coughing."

"Are there any changes to skin color?" She ventured.

"I know the symptoms of smoke inhalation, too," Batman snapped. "That's why I had you call for help…" Oracle took note of the Morse code that he was tapping as counterpoint to his words. _He's starting to get disoriented. I'm doing my best to keep him moving._

"Understood." She hesitated. "If you left Dr. Arkham…?"

"Out of the question. _The only reason Bruce is coming out with me is that I told him I could get them both away safel…_Firefighters are here. Batman out."

She noticed that he kept the channel open so that she could hear him bringing the newcomers up to speed.

The words 'Incoming Call' suddenly flashed green on one of her monitors. She was about to ignore it when she recognized the 415 area code. San Francisco. The call was coming from a payphone on the SFSU campus, and it was on her secured line.

"Yes?" Assuming she knew who was on the other end could be dangerous.

"The fire made CNN-dot-com. Is he alright?"

_Bingo._ She hesitated.

"Oracle?"

"They're treating him for smoke inhalation," she said.

"So he's okay?"

Something about the relief in his voice irritated her.

"It's too early to know anything, Tim," she said. "But there's room with Dick and me if you want to come in. You're on summer break, now, right?"

"Um... I've still gotta finish my last Ethics in Criminal Justice paper. Look, if he's really bad I'll be on the next plane, but for now…"

"Don't worry," she snapped. "I'll be sure not to bother you unless he's at death's door. Do you think you'd be able to make the funeral, Tim? Or should we just expect flowers and a card?"

She stabbed the disconnect button. _Oh G-d, what did I just say?_ She drew a deep breath and reopened her radio link with Dick. "Sorry about that. I thought it was something important. What's happening?"

"Call Rae." Batman said tersely. "They're taking him to Saint Swithin's. I'm going to switch back to civvies, change cars and head over there.

"I'll meet you. What do you want me to tell Rae?"

There was a pause. "Tell her that they're planning on crowding the Arkham population into Blackgate. Tell her to do whatever she has to in order to keep Bruce out."

Her knuckles whitened on the console table. "Will do. Oracle out." She closed the channel, thinking of the last time that Bruce had been in Blackgate during the Vesper Fairchild fiasco. Someone had bribed the guards to look the other way while three Aryan Nation members had entered his cell, intent on beating him to a pulp. Things hadn't worked out in their favor, true. But there was no reason to believe that the other guards were any less corruptible. And even if they were… at least at Arkham, the inmates' own insanity helped to keep them from working together for any length of time. But there were plenty of Blackgate residents with old scores to settle. And if they were to unite…

She hit the speed dial. "Rae, it's Barbara Gordon. Sorry to call at this hour, but… yes, yes, they've got him out, thank goodness…"

* * *

It seemed to take forever to reach Gotham's North Island. Barbara drove as quickly as she could, speeding through yellow lights and barely slowing down for stop signs. She could just envision tomorrow's headlines: _Former police commissioner's daughter busted for reckless driving_. She caught herself. The headlines were going to be more along the lines of _Asylum burns while inmates look on._ She'd be lucky to make a two-paragraph blurb on the bottom of page three.

Rae hadn't kept her on the phone long, but she'd been encouraging. The lawyer was going to make a few calls and get back to them. She'd been concerned but not panicky. On the other hand, Barbara had to admit that she didn't know the other woman well enough to gauge whether she was actually confident, or just didn't like appearing nervous to her clients.

Once at the trauma center, Barbara pulled into the closest handicapped spot and wheeled her way into the emergency room. She saw a young man in jeans and a brown windbreaker seated in the waiting area. He was holding a magazine, blankly staring at the page. Her father was sitting next to him. Barbara watched them for a few minutes. Dick's gaze never wavered. The page never turned.

She wheeled over. "Hi."

Dick held out a hand to her. She clasped it, then winced as he squeezed back. He loosened his grip, but he immediately brought his other hand forward, sandwiching her own between them.

"We're waiting to hear," her father said gently.

Barbara bit her lip. "Where are you going?" she asked as Gordon rose to his feet.

"We could be here for awhile," he said. "I'm going to see if I can find some coffee." He touched Dick's shoulder. "You know him," he said simply. "He doesn't know how _not_ to fight."

Dick nodded.

His hands were ice-cold, Barbara noted. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she gently maneuvered them so that one hand was pressed against her cheek. With her free hand, she began to massage the back of his other one.

"I wish someone would tell us something," he said finally. "It's the waiting that gets me."

Barbara said nothing.

"If only Firefly hadn't said Jeremiah was trapped up there," he whispered.

She glanced about nervously.

"I don't care who hears!" he snapped. Then he seemed to reconsider. "Batman told me what happened when he gave me a lift. I can't believe Bruce… oh, what am I saying? The unbelievable bit would've been if he'd decided to save his own neck. I…" He pulled his hands free and brought one down gently on her shoulder.

Barbara squeezed it.

"What did Rae say?"

She took a deep breath. "She's going to make some phone calls. She thinks she can file an emergency order to get Bruce transferred to a psych ward in one of the regular hospitals."

Dick brightened at that. "No Blackgate, then."

"No," she shook her head. "She's convinced that sticking him there would be detrimental to Bruce's mental health. Physical health, too, of course, but she thinks it's best to downplay that card, seeing as it probably won't be effective."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, the judge would probably just order Bruce into segregation and decide the problem was solved." He smiled. "Thanks for making that call for me."

"Not a problem."

Jim returned with the coffee. They drank in silence.

They waited.

They waited more.

Periodically, one would head over to the main desk to ask for an update. The answer was always the same: _we'll let you know as soon as we have answers for you._

Each time the swinging doors that led to the emergency ward opened, they tensed, but each time it proved to be a false alarm. Barbara wished she could have her cell on. There was a line up to use the pay phones, and she was convinced that the instant she rolled off to wait would be the instant that someone would finally have a status report.

Finally, a tired-looking man in his early fifties approached. "Mr. Grayson?"

Dick looked up. "That's me."

Barbara glanced at her watch. It was a little after five-thirty. Bruce had been brought in over seven hours ago.

"I'm Dr. Wiacek. I've been looking in on your… on Mr. Wayne."

Dick nearly jumped out of his seat. "How is my father?"

"Well, we were treating him for smoke inhalation. Now as you know, in cases like this, it's not uncommon for complications to arise. We're doing everything we can for him, and it is likely that he'll be—"

He was using the present tense, Dick registered with more than a little relief. But the doctor's facial expression, his posture, his overall demeanor implied that the news wasn't entirely good.

Gordon was suddenly standing next to them. "Doctor. We appreciate your coming out here, and believe me when I say that we understand that Mr. Wayne is receiving the best of all possible care. But we've had no word for hours, and whatever it is you're trying to say… maybe it's best you just come out and say it so we can move on. Now, how is he?"

The doctor licked his lips nervously. "We don't know. He's on a ventilator right now. He's suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning, facial burns, _inhalation _burns…" He shook his head.

"But he'll pull through," Dick said.

"There's definitely reason to believe so," Wiacek said, "but you have to understand… he's still at risk for a slew of complications. It would be premature to make any kind of prediction at this juncture." His gaze panned slowly from one face to the next. "I'm very much afraid that he's not out of the woods yet."


	14. Chapter 14: Clearing the Air

_And just to clear the air  
I ask forgiveness  
For the things I've done you blame me for  
But then, I guess we know  
There's blame to share  
And none of it seems to matter anymore  
Like a comet pulled from orbit as it passes the sun.  
Like a stream that meets a boulder halfway through the wood…_

_Who can say if I've been changed for the better?_

…_Because I knew you  
I have been changed for good._

_Stephen Schwartz, "For Good"_

_

* * *

_

"For Good" written by Stephen Schwartz. From the _Wicked _CD (Copyright 2003 by Decca Broadway.)

_Good Luck, Vol. 1_ written by E-Jin Kang. Copyright E-Jin Kang, Daiwon C.I., 2002. English text copyright 2006 by Tokyopop. The excerpt quoted appears on pages 11-12.

Special thanks to Anna, Tenaya, and LimaSierra at Livejournal, and to Juliet and Samantha for help with hospital protocols and smoke inhalation treatments.

Betas: Kathy Brignole, Debbie Reed, Colleen O'Toole

* * *

**Chapter 14: Clearing the Air**

Tim hunched forward, staring at his computer screen. "Come on, come on," he muttered. "Update, already!"

"Tim?" Cassie Sandsmark was suddenly standing next to him. "Are you okay?" Her eyes narrowed as the young man quickly minimized the window he'd been viewing. "What was that?"

Tim swallowed. "I…" He hesitated. "There was a fire at Arkham yesterday," he said tightly. "Bruce was caught in it." He exhaled. At Cassie's shocked expression, he brought back the window. "They've got him in hospital now, but…"

Her blonde ponytail fell forward and brushed his shoulder, as she leaned in to read over it. "How bad is he?"

Tim didn't answer, but he did move aside to give her an unobstructed view of the screen.

She read quietly to herself. "How serious is this?" She asked when she had finished.

Silence.

Cassie eyed him searchingly, noting raw fear behind his studied reserve. "Tim… could… could he die from that?"

Tim closed his eyes, as the mask seemed to drop away. "Yes."

She gripped his arm. "Then why are you still here? Tim, the jet's fueled. We can be in Gotham in about five-and-a-half hours. We'll take turns flying."

He didn't move.

Cassie's eyes narrowed. "You're not planning to go back, are you?" She asked.

"No, that's not it," he countered. "I just don't know if this is a good time. I mean, the others are going to be there. Considering the way I left, it's going to be tense. I don't want to make things worse." He took a deep breath. "I called to find out how he was doing already. Oracle and I… Look. I haven't exactly been around all that much. I don't really want to face… everyone."

The chair he was sitting in suddenly spun around, and he stared directly into a pair of angry blue eyes.

"I did _not_ just hear you say that!" Cassie snapped. "There is no way that you could be so self-centered as to—"

"What if I'm already too late?"

He barely had time to dodge the slap that she tried to deliver to his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Hopefully knocking some sense into you." She swung again. He ducked before he realized that this time he wasn't the target. The blow connected with the chair, and sent it rolling away from the computer desk.

He leaped up from his seat. "Cassie, stop," he said, trying to sound intimidating. Unfortunately, he sounded terrified.

"When you start acting the way you're supposed to, _then _I'll stop! I don't believe this. He was your _mentor_. The way you talked about him sometimes, we all thought he was your fa—"

"Don't say it!" He was past fear and moving straight on to rage. "Do NOT go there. You don't have any idea what you're talking about. He—"

"Took you in. Trained you. Made you his partner."

"Made me choose between him and my dad. He never even _tried_ to ask me to stay. Oh, no… he couldn't do that. But he could give the costume over to my girlfriend to make me jealous. And then he just sat back and waited until it was _my_ idea to come out of retirement." He took a deep breath. "He wasn't even surprised; it was like he knew all along I'd be back. Just like he planned it."

Cassie shook her head. "So now you think he's manipulating you from a hospital bed, is that it?"

"No, that's not it. It's…"

She drew a deep breath. "Tim? Do you recall when we all got tossed ten years forward? And you met yourself?"

His mind reeled. Why in the world was she bringing that up now? He nodded.

"I remember afterwards, you were wondering how you could turn into someone that… cold. Tim? Maybe… maybe this is how it starts. Turning away."

Right on cue, Tim turned away from her and looked back to the computer screen. Cassie gripped his chin and forced him to meet her eyes again. "Turning away," she repeated. "Because you're scared. Because it _hurts_. But rather than admit that _you_ have a problem, you twist things around and look for ways to rationalize. 'You'll only make things worse.' 'The others don't want you around.' 'You have enough going on in your life without adding to the stress.' And so, you turn your back. Just this once. Only… only it isn't. Because each time you turn away, _you_ get that much harder and _it_ gets that much easier to keep doing it—until…" She let her voice trail off.

Tim shook his head. "I can't." He stood up and walked a few steps away. "You wouldn't understand…"

Her fist slammed into his chest. If his reflexes hadn't taken over, she likely would have shattered bone. As it was, he landed heavily on his backside.

"I wouldn't?" Cassie demanded. "Are you actually going to sit there and tell me that I don't know what it means to lose people? Donna? _Conner?_ I wouldn't understand? I joined a frigging _cult_ thinking that they had a way to bring Kon back! I came damned close to approaching Luthor, believe it or not. If we hadn't found out the real story behind his Everyman Project, I might have—if anyone would have access to the right kind of research, you _know_ Lexcorp would. But you… Tim, Bruce is still alive, but you're already writing him off. Instead of running back to Gotham to try to patch things up, you're running away in case it's already too late." She bit her lip. "Tim, we _are_ what we repeatedly _do_!" She took a deep breath. "You can keep running away and making excuses, or you can think about why you wear that costume. And show me where it's written that you get to help everyone _except_ Batman."

She looked at him, still sitting awkwardly on the floor. "Hope I didn't just cause you any _brain_ damage," she said without a smile. "The jet's fueled. Meet me in the hangar in thirty minutes. Bring the others if you want, but you are getting on that plane if I have to knock you out and stuff you in the luggage bin. You've got half an hour."

* * *

"He's stable." Dr. Wiacek looked haggard, as though he hadn't slept in weeks. "He's still critical, but he's stable. We've sedated him for now. We're going to have to keep him out of it for at least the next day or so. Possibly longer." He looked from one person to the next. "Would any of you know how long he was unconscious in that fire?"

Dick cleared his throat. "Batman told me it wasn't for very long. Maybe one, two minutes tops. Then the firefighters and paramedics stepped in." _And if you need anything more specific, first I'll tell you, and only then will I try to figure out how Dick Grayson could have all the details when he, supposedly, wasn't anywhere near the fire. Secrets be damned._

The doctor nodded. "That's heartening. Much beyond that and we'd have more cause to be concerned about oxygen deprivation. In brief, he's intubated. We've put him on a neuroanaesthetic, to block his gag reflex so he won't try to pull out the tube. We've had to order wrist restraints for the same reason. Now we are planning to keep him heavily sedated until it's time to pull out the tube, so the restraints are more of a precaution in case we misjudge and he wakes up early." He waited for Dick to nod before he went on. "Since his blood pressure's dropped significantly—it happens in cases such as this—we're keeping his feet elevated and his head lowered. There's a Demerol drip set up for the pain as well—and believe me, tracheal burns are painful."

Dick nodded again. As Wiacek continued to reel off what had been done, the implications of the medical procedures slowly sank in. Bruce wasn't going to be struggling to get out of bed against doctors orders any time soon.

"Now, within the next day or so, we'll probably have to schedule a session in an HBO—that's a hyperbaric oxygen chamber…"

"When can we see him?" Dick asked, struggling to keep a quaver out of his voice. He thought he succeeded.

"You're his son?"

Dick nodded.

Wiacek made a show of consulting his clipboard again. "I can let you have fifteen minutes now. And only you. He won't be awake with the level of sedation we've had to administer, but he might still hear what you say and remember it when he wakes up."

"I understand." He looked at the others.

Gordon smiled. "Go on. But you tell him we're all out here pulling for him, Son."

Dick didn't trust himself to reply as he fell into step with Wiacek.

* * *

Once inside the ICU, Dr. Wiacek escorted him to a sink and instructed him to wash his hands to the elbow. After Dick had done so, he turned to see a gloved nurse holding out a sterile robe for him to slip into. "Due to the risk of infection when dealing with this level of burn damage," Wiacek explained, "you'll need to suit up."

Dick nodded automatically, but his mind was reeling as he slid his arm into the sleeve. Once the robe was on, the nurse helped him to don a pair of gloves. A surgical mask and a hood that looked like a shower cap followed.

Dick felt his heart begin to pound as he followed the doctor down the corridor. If he needed to take all of these precautions, just what kind of shape must Bruce be in?

"Fifteen minutes," Wiacek's voice broke in on his thoughts. "And afterwards," he said as he came to a stop before a closed room, "there's one more thing I'll need to go over with you." He pointed to a trash bin. Dick noticed that there was one of those situated directly to the right of each door in the ICU. "When you leave, drop the protective clothes in there," he said. Then he pressed down on the levered knob. "Fifteen minutes, tops," he repeated.

* * *

It wasn't really the lighting. Dick had been expecting that. He knew that UV lamps accentuated pallor, and made old scars stand out. It did the same for bruises, but thankfully, Bruce didn't have any of those at present. He'd been prepared for the eerie glow that white sheets—or anything else white for that matter—acquired under those conditions.

Rather, it was the machines. He found himself unnerved by the beeping and humming of the equipment that surrounded the bed, by the trachea tube, the IV drip pole, the monitoring systems, the various clear tubes that poked under the blankets, the…

…He wrenched his eyes away from the nearly half-full collection bag at the foot of the bed and focused on Bruce. His face and what was visible of his body had swollen grotesquely. As the doctor had told him, Bruce was asleep, seemingly oblivious.

"Hi, Bruce." He'd been aiming for a casual tone, but his voice was shaking. "What happened? You missed striking terror into the hearts of the underworld, so you settled for scaring the rest of us?"

He hadn't really expected a response. Dick considered. If despite the meds some part of Bruce was still aware, that part was probably disoriented and confused from the medications, possibly still in pain…

Dick took a deep breath. "You're at Saint Swithin's trauma center in the ICU. I popped in to say 'hi' but the doc says I can't stay long, 'cuz you need to rest. Heh. Shows what he knows, right?"

He placed a gloved hand on Bruce's forehead. "We're all rooting for you. Babs and her dad are in the waiting room. I think Cass might be here too, by now. She was patrolling before. Someone had to."

The plastic garments were hot. And to top it off, his upper lip was itching. He shook his head.

"You just _had_ to go running after me, didn't you? Of course, I had to compound things by leaving the cape behind. Nobody's listening, so don't worry," he added hastily. "Maybe if I'd held on to it, you would've turned back. Or maybe you would've just pushed ahead without it. I don't know anymore. I…"

He stopped. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Bruce. "Just concentrate on getting better, m'kay? They don't like long visits in this part of the hospital. Now if you can improve enough that they move you into a regular room…" He let a smile creep into his voice.

Was it just his imagination, or did Bruce seem calmer? Dick reached down and gave his hand a squeeze. Then he settled back to make the most of the fifteen minutes. Bruce didn't open his eyes, but neither did any of the machines connected to him emit any warning beeps.

Precisely a quarter hour after he'd entered the room, there was a knock on the door. A nurse stuck his head in. "Time's up. You can come back in a few hours."

Dick rose to his feet. "Guess you heard that. Medical orders and all. Get some rest. See you in a little while."

Outside the room, he stripped off the protective gear, telling himself that it was only shock of the cold air blowing from the vent that was making him shiver.

* * *

"Excuse me," Dick said to the dark-haired woman in green scrubs, who was seated at the nurses' station. "Dr. Wiacek asked me to check back with him before I left?"

The nurse nodded. "I can page… oh, here he comes." She beckoned to him. "Doctor?"

Wiacek trotted up and gave Dick a brief smile. "His vitals are still stable. Hopefully, they'll stay that way. The swelling should start to go down soon, and once his condition improves we'll be able to move him into ICU step-down in a couple of days. After that, assuming no complications, we'll transfer him to Intermediate Care a few days after that."

His voice lowered to slightly above a whisper. "I wanted to ask you: as a security precaution, he's entered as a John Doe for the moment. It would pose too much of a risk, both to the patient and to everyone here, were we to admit him under his real name. However, since we wouldn't want to arbitrarily assign a name to him which neither you nor he would remember, perhaps it would be best if you were to tell us how you'd like us to register your father."

"Oh." Dick thought for a moment. The first name had to be the same, or close to it. He wasn't going to suddenly start calling Bruce 'Charlie' or 'John'. _Brewster_. That was an idea. 'Bruce' would be a credible nickname, and the difference in spelling meant that the name might not come to the immediate attention of someone scanning a list of patients.

The surname was trickier. Bruce's family history was a matter of record. Dick immediately eliminated obvious giveaways. Forget 'Fledermaus', 'Batson' or anything else that had to do with bats. Not 'Thomas' or 'Thomson'. And definitely nothing like 'Robinson' or 'Robbins'. Speaking of sons, on the other hand, Bruce definitely seemed to have one father figure in his corner. He lifted his eyes. "Brewster Jameson," he said clearly. _Bet they both get a kick out of THAT one!

* * *

_

They looked up at his approach.

"Well?" Cass asked.

Dick forced a smile. "He's stable. They're taking good care of him. I'm sure he'll…"

"Dick…" Barbara interrupted. "How is he?"

His face crumpled. He reached for her hands. She pulled him gently down toward her.

"I've never seen him this bad," he whispered. "Not even when he got infected with that experimental virus and I had to give him a full-body blood transfusion. It's…"

Barbara nodded. "I know. But he's a survivor. He'll make it. It's what he does, Dick."

He was aware of that. He was just having a hard time internalizing it at the moment.

Gordon cleared his throat. "I think we could all do with a change of scene. There's a coffee shop about two blocks from here. I'll bet you anything they've got something better than that sludge that I bought before." He turned to Dick. "How long did they say before we could see him?"

Dick looked up. "Maybe another six hours or so, assuming he stays stable."

"Just this once," Gordon said, "let's assume. We'll go out, walk around a bit, get some air, and then come back here with maybe a little more energy." He dropped to a chair so that he could make eye contact with the younger man. "I've sat a few of these vigils before, Dick. Trust me. You _need_ to get out of here for a bit. Right now, when he's stable and you know you can't do anything here but sit still, this is the best time to take a break. Come on."

Dick nodded slowly. "I'll leave my cellphone number at the desk, though," he said. "Just in case."

* * *

"Peppermint tea?" Gordon's eyebrows shot up.

Dick nodded. "Works better than caffeine, and I'm nervous enough without taking something to make me more jittery." He noted that Barbara and her father had both opted for black coffee, albeit originating from different points on the globe. Cass had chosen a chai latte. They carried their drinks and slabs of cake over to one of the tables at the back. The lunch crowd had mostly gone, and apart from a few older people seated near the front, the Sundollars Café was deserted. That suited the quartet fine. They ate and drank in near-silence, not really tasting or thinking about the food. There wasn't much to say that hadn't already been said. Finally, haltingly, Dick began to talk about what had happened on the other side of the doors to the ICU ward.

"_Brewster_?" Barbara sputtered. She caught herself and lowered her voice. "You went and entered his name as…"

Dick grinned. "I had to think fast. And considering how doped up they've got him right now, I didn't want to confuse him with something _way_ out there."

"I didn't say it was a bad idea," Barbara said. "But still… _Brucester_… it sounds like something out of _Wayne's World_."

Dick's eyes grew wide. "Oh… my… G-d." He couldn't help it. He started to laugh. "I wasn't even thinking of it that way, I swear! Oh… G-d." He gave up on trying to suppress his mirth. "You know what would've been worse, right?" Seeing Barbara's quizzical look, he blurted out "Brewster _Gold_!"

That did it. Even Cass cracked a smile, as the other two joined in the laughter. "He'd kill you," Gordon said.

"No," Cass argued. "Batman doesn't kill."

"Batman doesn't," Gordon agreed. "I'm not so sure about Bruce."

Dick shook his head still grinning. He let out a long breath. "I guess we needed that," he admitted. "Ready to head out of here?"

The others nodded. "Would they let us bring flowers, do you think?" Barbara asked, as they headed for the doors.

"Probably not 'til he's out of ICU," Gordon rumbled. "Right now, I wouldn't worry about it.

"He'd want?" Cass asked. "Or is it just to show we want him better?" She shook her head. "We show that when we visit. Besides, flowers die. Depressing really." She zipped up her jacket, oblivious to the bemused looks of the others.

Dick looked at his watch. They'd managed to spend a little over two hours in Sundollars. They still had at least three hours to kill before they'd be able to see Bruce. The trouble, Dick reflected, was that there wasn't really much to do in the vicinity of Saint-Swithin's. The East River district consisted mainly of slums and discount stores. He supposed that they could hike it to Aparo Park, but then again, that was easily forty-five minutes away on foot. He wasn't sure whether Gordon was up to that long a trek. They could drive it, perhaps. Somehow, though, taking the cars would feel more like they were leaving Bruce. There was no rational explanation for it. Whether they walked three miles or drove three miles, it would be the same distance. But leaving the vehicles behind pretty much guaranteed that they would have to come back.

"I think there's a used book store around the corner," he said. "Those magazines in the waiting room are old enough to vote. Maybe…"

"Good idea," Gordon said. "Give you something to do beyond harassing the nurses."

Cass felt her palms grow sweaty. She knew that her reading was getting better, but… she had a sneaking suspicion that Barbara was going to pick out something for her—and it was probably going to be a picture book. And it was probably going to be something that Helena would be able to read before she could. "Wonderful," she muttered, meaning anything but…

* * *

Once in the bookstore, the four split up. Barbara headed for the history shelves. Gordon selected two local and one out-of-town newspaper. "I wouldn't," he said blandly, as Dick reached for _International Health News_.

Dick's hand stopped just short of the cover of the journal.

"You'll only make yourself crazy second-guessing the doctors."

"Point taken." He straightened up with a sigh. "I'm not sure what else to look for, though."

Jim pushed up his glasses. "My suggestion? Get something you read a long time ago and enjoyed. It'll probably help you relax. At the same time, when you do get to go back in to visit, you'll be able to put the thing down more easily." He shrugged. "Or maybe get something you can leave for Bruce to read, when he's feeling up to it."

Dick thought for a moment. Then he smiled. "I'll bet anything they've got some detective pulp fiction, here."

The periodicals bins held numerous magazines alphabetized by title. Browsing through them, he discovered a run nearly four feet long of _Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine_. He grabbed a dozen at random. Those, combined with a few _Two Minute Mysteries_ he'd read back in fourth grade would hold him for awhile.

Cass darted into the stacks. She knew that it was pointless. Sooner or later, they were going to get ready to leave, and Barbara would urge her to choose something to practice with. Probably something aimed at a preschool level. She sighed. She understood that she had to cover the basics before attempting something more advanced, but reading something geared to small children made her feel stupid. It didn't matter that she knew she was being silly. She still felt embarrassed to browse the 'beginning to read' section.

At random, she pulled a volume off the shelf and flipped through it. She blinked. Pictures? The major part of each page was taken up with pen-and-ink drawings. There were a few words as well, but it was mainly artwork. And it didn't look like the art in the children's picture books, either. For one thing, most of those pictures were colorful. After all this time, she still didn't always have a good sense of what was suitable for children. She chalked it up to her own unconventional upbringing. Still… this material seemed to be aimed more at adults. What _was_ this stuff? She looked up at the subject sign.

"Mmm… man… ga?" She said aloud. She looked at the text again and her face fell. Even these words were too hard. She wanted to scream. There had to be _something_! Wait…

One shelf below her, a two-word title caught her eye. She recognized these words. "Good. Luck." She read. Hesitantly, she slid the book out and rifled to the first page of the story. "My name…" she read aloud, "is…" she frowned. There hadn't been any names like _that_ in her easy readers. _So? Sound it out_. "Sh… Shi? Shi. Shi-" her jaw dropped. How in the world was she supposed to pronounce the second part of the name? _Hyun_. She'd never come across a name that started with 'hy'. She took a deep breath. "Shi-Huyoon Lee." She had no clue whether that was correct. On the other hand, names didn't have to be said right for the story to make sense. She'd leave it for now. She could always ask someone later. "My name is Shi-Hyun Lee." She repeated. "I'm…" she frowned. The first letter was a lower-case 'l', but what was the second? After a moment, she realized her mistake. She wasn't looking at letters; she was looking at _numbers_. She knew what a one and a seven together signified. She continued. "I'm seventeen. I just got kicked out of… of…" She frowned at the consonant blend. The word was familiar. Now what… her confusion cleared. She smiled. "I just got kicked out of school. Why, you ask?" She turned the page. "Simpluh. No." She corrected herself. "Sim_pul. _Simple…"

This… this wasn't simple. She still had to concentrate. It was going to take time and effort. But she was doing it. She was picking up something that wasn't a special 'beginning-to-read' text or a… a basal reader. Maybe… She flipped a few pages ahead. It looked like there was a fight scene coming up… She closed the volume and stared at the title again. _Good Luck_. Cass smiled to herself. She probably needed it. Slowly, deliberately, she made her way down the aisle toward the cashier.

* * *

As they were heading up the walkway approaching the main entrance to the hospital, a young man got up from the wooden bench in front of the building. "Um… Hi."

Dick gaped. "Tim?" He flung an arm around the newcomer's shoulders. "Tim!"

The youth nodded and returned the gesture. "Yeah. Me. Cassie and I landed about an hour ago. Sorry if jetlag catches up at some point. She went off to do some sightseeing. I…" He tensed as Dick clapped him on the back. "Don't. I should've come in sooner." He looked at Barbara. "Sorry I was a jerk on the phone, before."

Barbara nodded, glad to see him, but not willing to let him off the hook entirely. Still, if the truth were to be told… "I wasn't much better." Her eyes narrowed. "How did you know to come here? He's not registered under his real name, and if you just landed an hour ago, he would've still been listed as a John Doe when you set out."

Tim smiled. "Jeremiah wasn't. I checked to find out where he'd been taken, and hacked St. Swithin's admittance log to see whether anyone else came in at the same time. If you know Bruce's medical history, it's not that hard to figure out who the John Doe is."

The others exchanged startled glances. "That's a leak I need to plug," Barbara said, frowning. "I'll have to do it without messing up the hospital records," she added, thinking aloud. "I suppose if I modify the same program I use to alert me whenever someone tries to run a check on any of our fingerprints and IDs… set it up so that if the wrong people try to access Jeremiah's info, I can detect and divert..."

"Go," Dick said immediately. "I'll come home for a bit after I get in to see Bruce again. We'll need to work out a schedule once he's able to receive more visitors."

"Cassie said she can handle things at night," Tim said. "That'll free up some time."

Dick nodded. "I'll thank her when I see her." He stooped to hug Barbara goodbye. "See if anyone else is available to fill in for the next few nights… just in case she needs backup," he whispered. "Try Vic. Maybe the Outsiders are in the country this week."

Barbara nodded.

After she drove off in the van, Dick motioned to Tim to sit back down on the bench. "Let me bring you up to speed," he said. "Starting with what happened when I got back to Arkham."

A few moments later, Tim snickered loudly. "_Brucester?!_"

* * *

_He was running fast, faster than he thought possible. He had to get there in time. He had to reach Alfred. The roof was falling in… flaming chunks of debris brushing past him. The smoke… it was hard to breathe, but he had to keep going. He had to get Alfred out from under the desk in…_

…It hurt to move. Something felt… off. Before he could fully grasp his circumstances…

_He was in the alley, angling for the dumpster. The ceiling was falling and he tried to escape the debris. He couldn't drop Jeremiah. He'd failed once before. He had to make this better. But it was hard to breathe in the smoke and heat. He had a gas mask. So why…? Why didn't matter. He couldn't fail again. If it killed him, he had to succeed._

_This wasn't right. The memories were all jumbled together. He had no idea where he was or what was going on. He fought down a wave of panic and tried to draw a deep breath but something was preventing him. What was going on? Was he in the alley? Or was this Arkham? _

"You're at Saint Swithin's in the ICU. They just brought you back from the HBO chamber."

He knew the voice, he thought, but something was muffling it. Dick? He tried to ask what was going on but he seemed to be unable to speak…

_Run… run to find Jeremiah before the fire cut off his escape route. He was getting out of breath. His chest was burning. From this level of exertion? He wasn't this badly out of shape. He caught himself. He'd been breathing in the smoke before. It was catching up with him, stealing his breath, slowing him down. So be it. He'd been too late to save Alfred, but he could still save Jeremiah. It wouldn't make up for his earlier failure, but at least it would balance it. And if it killed him…_

"Bruce? Yeah, it's me. Don't get all mushy or anyth—oh damn, this isn't a joke. Please, just tell me I didn't leave this too long. I really meant to come back sooner but…"

_Time always ran out on him. He had to be faster, but breathing the smoke was sapping his speed. He had to get to the office… had to pull…_

"We're all pulling for you, son… Have to say, you had us worried for a bit."

He felt a gloved hand on his forehead. He tried to force his eyes open. It was hard to think, hard to move… and while it wasn't hard to breathe, something was still… off.

"Easy. Don't try to say anything. Just relax. You're at Saint Swithin's, getting treated for smoke inhalation. You won't be able to talk until they take that tracheal tube out, so don't try."

Intubation. Bruce felt his panic ease. That explained a great deal. He tried to open his eyes, to let Jim know that he was awake…

…"Bruce? Doctor!"

Barbara? What had happened to Jim? He tried to ask before he remembered the tube. Suddenly, he began to cough. He could hear footsteps approaching rapidly, a shouted order for some sort of medication. If his thoughts were clearer, he could probably remember what the substance was and what it would do but…

"Okay, Bruce? I want you to take it easy. You've shifted the trach tube, and it's making you cough. Don't worry. We're going to try to remove it now, and see how you manage without it."

Barbara's gloved hand was suddenly in his, squeezing it. He squeezed back, as he tried to focus on what the stranger—the doctor, he supposed—was saying.

"Now as I pull out the tube, I want you to cough. You probably will anyway, and that's to be expected. In fact, it's perfectly normal if you cough a lot, so don't worry."

Bruce's throat was still numb, but he imagined that he could feel it as the tube began to slide upwards. It gave him a queasy feeling as it did. He focused on Barbara gripping his hand. "Hang on," she urged. "It's coming."

He could barely hear her over his violent hacking. His eyes were tearing up. This much retching couldn't possibly be normal. His chest felt as though it was on fire. He heard Barbara asking the doctor something about the bed. What? Abruptly, the mattress elevated his torso to a half-sitting position. That helped. Suddenly, he could draw a breath. He exhaled, then inhaled again. He could do this. He felt his heart rate begin to subside.

"That's better," the doctor said. "Okay," he said as he leaned over the bed. "Let's just lose those wrist restraints, and then," he looked over his shoulder, "I think you can take over, Evan."

Barbara smiled. "Nice to have you back with us."

Bruce watched as a nurse came forward to begin fussing at the bands that secured his hands to the bed rails. He tried to say something, but his voice was a hoarse rasp. He winced. "Water?" He struggled to say. "Please?"

His hands were free now. He brought them forward and began to rub at his wrists.

The doctor grinned. "Nurse? Could we get some ice chips?"

Bruce pulled his attention to another man, who was wheeling a large machine forward. "This is an IPPB," the second man said. "That stands for Intermittent Positive Pressure Breathing machine. We're using it to help restore your full lung expansion. Among other benefits."

The nurse returned carrying a small bowl containing slivers of ice. Bruce reached for one and immediately popped it into his mouth.

"Suck it slowly," the doctor advised.

Barbara leaned forward, intrigued by the machine. "Is that some sort of ventilator?"

The second man, whose name seemed to be 'Evan', smiled. "Very good. Yes, it delivers compressed gas under positive pressure directly into the airway. We'll administer some nebulized medications in the same fashion. At this hospital, we generally use IPPB for the first twenty-four hours after discontinuing mechanical ventilation." He turned back to Bruce. "Once you're finished with the ice, we'll try ten breaths now, and see how that goes. Most likely, we'll be repeating that dose every hour."

Bruce nodded. He didn't want to attempt to speak again so quickly, but he lifted his hand to signal when he was done.

"Sure?" Evan asked. "I can wait if you need more ice."

Bruce shook his head. Better to get this over with.

"Alright then."

There was a hose with a mouthpiece attached it that connected to the IPPB machine. The doctor showed Bruce how to fit it in. "Now inhale…" Bruce was immediately aware of a difference. The machine expanded his lungs to a far greater degree than he had managed on his own. The procedure was not painful. As a matter of fact, it relaxed him. Once the exercise was completed the doctor smiled. "I'd say that went well. So now," he said as he wheeled the machine back to its place against the wall, "we're on to the next step."

From somewhere behind the bed, the doctor opened a drawer and pulled out an oxygen mask. From the look of it, the device was designed to cover almost the entire lower part of his face. Attached to it was a clear bag that reminded him of a deflated hot-water bottle.

Bruce frowned. "Non-rebreather?" His voice was still hoarse, but at least it was less of a strain to make himself heard.

The doctor adjusted something on the face mask, and the attached bag began to fill with air. "I should have introduced myself first, sorry! I'm Evan Hazelwood. I'm a respiratory therapist. And yes, this is a non-rebreather mask. You're well-informed, Mr. Jameson."

Bruce blinked. _Jameson_? Was Hazelwood somehow reading the wrong patient's chart? He became aware of Barbara hastily tapping Morse code into the palm of his hand. _It's you. Don't worry. Just playing safe. Your name is…_

Dick _had_ to have chosen that one, Bruce realized. He was going to have to have a talk with the young man about a few things later. For now, though…

He drew another breath, marveling that he could ever have taken such an activity for granted, and he reached again for the bowl of ice chips.

* * *

He must have dozed off at some point after his second session with the IPPB. When he woke up, Dick was sitting by the bed. "You're looking better," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Bruce closed his eyes once more. "Drugged. Tired." The mask muffled his voice, but he could make himself understood. He took another breath. "Alive."

Dick's hand was suddenly on his shoulder. "We thought… the docs wouldn't tell us until early this morning that you were 'recovering well'. They're planning to move you into ICU step-down tomorrow."

Bruce processed that. "How… how long have I been here?"

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "A little over four days. How much do you remember?" Almost immediately, he added, "I don't mean to badger you. Any time you want to stop talking, just tell me."

Bruce frowned. Everything about the hospital was a blur to him. He thought he had woken up a few times, but maybe he'd only dreamed that he had. "This is Saint-Swithin's?" He asked. "Or did I imagine you telling me that?" He grimaced. His throat was still feeling a bit numb. He imagined it was better than being sore.

Dick grinned. "No, you were right the first time. Looks like the doc knew what he was talking about when he said you'd probably still be able to hear what we said. Do you remember about Arkham?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "The fire. Yes. I… remember." His eyebrows lifted. "I remember certain words signed in my direction which I don't believe you've ever dared say to my face."

Dick looked down for a moment. "If it helps," he grimaced, "they wouldn't let me come in here until I washed my hands off with soap."

"Very funny."

The words were stern, but Dick noted that Bruce's eyes were smiling. The smile turned serious. "I went back in for… Jeremiah." He locked eyes with his surrogate son. "Dick, is he alright?"

"I don't know," Dick admitted. "I can find out."

"Please."

Dick nodded. "Okay."

The door opened to admit Evan Hazelwood. The respiratory therapist greeted the two other men with a smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but your fifteen minutes are up."

He turned to Bruce. "And, it's time for your next IPPB session, Mr. Jameson," he said as he pulled the machine forward.

Bruce nodded. He turned back to Dick. "Why don't you get some air, too?" he asked. "Or maybe some sleep? You look like you could use it."

"Probably," Dick admitted. "I've just been…"

"I know. Go home and rest. I'll manage." His expression turned serious. "It's not that I don't appreciate you being here. I do. But… you do have other responsibilities."

"They're being looked after."

Bruce shook his head. "I meant Barbara. Your being here for hours can't be easy for her."

Dick felt a pang. "She understands."

"She does," Bruce agreed. "But that doesn't make it right." Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Hazelwood's growing impatience. "You'll go?"

It was a request, not an order. Dick managed a nod. "But I'll be back."

Bruce wouldn't have thought otherwise.

* * *

"You're home early," Barbara greeted him with a smile. "Rae called."

Dick bent down to kiss her. "And?"

The smile broadened. "The emergency order came through. It would've come through a lot sooner, she said, if Jeremiah had made better arrangements."

"Oh?" Dick saw that she'd been in the middle of chopping vegetables. "Do you want a hand with supper?"

"You can set the table," she said. "I was just going to throw a salad together. There's a thick soup or a thin stew in the crock pot—I didn't know when you'd be back so I wanted something that wasn't going to be ruined if you came in late."

Her smile turned to a grimace. "Apparently, Dr. Wolper was on vacation—he just got back early this morning. Wolper's the deputy administrator of Arkham. Problem was, with Jeremiah incapacitated, this guy unreachable, and a detailed chain-of-command chart probably locked up or burned up in Jeremiah's office—until now, it wasn't clear who'd have the authority to submit that affidavit stating that sending Bruce to Blackgate would be a bad thing. Alex's statement alone wasn't enough."

Dick nodded. "So it's all taken care of now? Bruce is safe?"

Barbara nodded back. "It got approved about an hour ago. Situations's still not great at the moment—judge ordered him remanded to a maximum security ward, but…" "I know," Dick said glumly. "It isn't Blackgate." He'd thought that Bruce might finally be able to catch some sort of break, but evidently not. It just wasn't fair! 

"That's not what I was going to say," Barbara replied. She took a deep breath. "Rae doesn't think he'll be on that ward for more than ten days, two weeks tops." She took his hand between both of hers. "Because the day that Bruce leaves Intermediate Care is the day that she files a motion to review."

Dick's eyes widened. Barbara nodded as his smile grew to match hers. "She still wants to meet with him one more time before she submits the paperwork, but she's pretty much convinced he can pass that hearing."

She started to laugh as he leaned over and seized hold of the arms of the wheelchair. "What are you doing?"

For a moment, she thought that he was going to spin her—wheelchair and all—about the kitchen. Then, he seemed to think better of it as he bent down, lifted her out of the chair and hugged her. "Yes!" He exclaimed.

* * *

It wasn't until they were finishing up with supper that Dick remembered to ask about Jeremiah. "They wouldn't tell me anything at the hospital," he admitted. "I guess I could've skulked around, but I figured you'd probably locate the information faster."

"I should," Barbara nodded. "Especially since I'm already monitoring his file for unauthorized inquiries." She wheeled back into her work area. "Give me a second." She frowned. "I haven't actually tried reading it myself yet, but it shouldn't be hard to access… here we go!" She began to read.

Dick watched her expression change. "Bad."

"Very," she said shakily. "Remember, he was in that fire for longer than you or Bruce were, and he had no protective gear worth mentioning." She shook her head slowly. "Tracheal burns, bronchospasm, lung inflammation, carbon monoxide poisoning… they've got him on a ventilator right now, he's had a tracheotomy, they're feeding him through a tube… Dick… it really doesn't look good." She continued to read. "There's a notation from Wiacek that he believes Arkham's condition is turning into ARDS. That's not yet confirmed, though."

"ARDS?" Dick frowned. It sounded familiar. "I think I heard the doctors saying something about that in connection with Bruce…"

"No," Barbara corrected. "They were saying that it was good he wasn't showing any symptoms of it. Basically, with ARDS, the lungs are so badly damaged they stop working. It's treatable—about half the time." Her expression was somber. "It's got a fifty per cent mortality rate." She shook her head. "We've had our issues with Jeremiah, Dick, but I have to tell you, I wouldn't wish what he's going through on the Joker."

* * *

Bruce listened as Dick related Barbara's findings. Slowly, he shook his head. "Can you get in to see him?"

Dick's jaw dropped. "What?" At Bruce's insistent look, he thought for a moment. "I doubt it. He's in worse shape now than you were when they brought you in, and I didn't get to see you for hours. Bruce, if they let anybody into his room, it's going to be family."

Bruce locked eyes with him. "Dick…" His voice dropped in volume but gained in intensity. "Jeremiah _has_ no family. They've all passed on." He looked away. "I… before all this… there were things I thought it would be better to face alone.

"Don't!" He said sharply, as he felt Dick's hand on his shoulder. "I'm alright. I just…" He drew a long breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled. He turned back to face the younger man.

"These last days…" he shook his head. "No. These last two years… now that I look back, to have faced them alone would have been," he closed his eyes, "impossible."

"Bruce…" Dick started to reach for his shoulder again.

Bruce caught his hand in a fierce grip. "No." He smiled wearily. "I'm fine. Really. But what Jeremiah is going through, he shouldn't… nobody should have to deal with that on their own."

Dick swallowed. "I'll ask. But if they tell me I can't, it's going to have to wait until he's recovered enough. The risk of infection with burns…"

Bruce nodded. "I'm not asking you to sneak in," he clarified. "But try to keep asking about him. At the very least, the staff may be more attentive."

Dick nodded back. Tim had said something very similar under other circumstances long ago. "So this is 'step-down'," he said changing the subject. "The lighting's more normal, at least."

"It's intentional on the part of the hospital," Bruce said. "After the ultra-violet lamps in ICU, it makes patients appear healthier by comparison."

The door opened to admit a nurse carrying a small cooler. "Cherry, grape or orange?" She asked.

Bruce blinked. "Pardon?"

"Popsicle," the nurse said. "Doctor said you should start on those, today."

She smiled apologetically at Dick. "You can come back at ten," she added. "For another twenty minutes."

"Right, doc gave me the schedule," he answered. "Then again at one, five and nine?"

The nurse grinned broadly. "You got it."

Dick sighed. "Alright. I guess I'll leave you to… breakfast," he said. "I always thought the orange ones tasted weird, by the way."

He'd been about to tell Bruce about the hearing, but it occurred to him that the nurse might not be aware of Bruce's current legal situation. The update could wait until the next visit.

As he left, Dick heard Bruce request the orange-flavored one. He smirked. Bruce could probably use the extra vitamin C.

* * *

It was another three days before Tim came to visit. Bruce was sitting up in bed, a spoonful of lukewarm broth in his hand. He set the spoon down immediately in the bowl. "Tim."

The youth eyed him nervously. "Hi, Bruce. How are you?" He grimaced. "…Feeling, I mean," he added hastily. He didn't wait for an answer. "Dumb question. Sorry. I… I'm really sorry. I…"

Bruce indicated the chair by the bed. "It's good to see you," he said. He paused. Evan had told him that he needed to wear the mask whenever he wasn't eating. With a mental sigh, he reached for it and swiftly placed it over his nose and mouth. "It couldn't have been easy for you to come in from California," he added. "Tha—"

"Will you just stop?" Tim demanded. "Please. We both know I ran out on you. Stop trying to make it sound like I'm doing you some kind of favor coming back when I…" He turned his face to the wall. "I never should have gone in the first place."

"Tim."

He didn't turn around. "I just couldn't face seeing you like… arrgh! I didn't mean…"

"Tim. Turn around. Look at me." His voice was low, still somewhat hoarse, but the note of command was unmistakable.

Slowly, the youth complied.

Bruce shook his head sadly. "Nobody can know what you were going through other than you. My withdrawal…"

"The others stuck it out!" Tim protested. He spun back around. "I caved," he muttered. "I caved."

Bruce sighed. "At the time," he said, "I was doing everything that I could to push you away. It is… difficult to hold you accountable for doing what I wan… what I _thought_ I wanted you to do." There was a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with his recent respiratory issues. "And what you said to me was not… inaccurate," he admitted. "Nor was it undeserved."

Tim's eyebrows came together. "How can you say that?" He demanded. "What I said—"

"Was factually correct," Bruce finished. "If you had done something similar, I would have taken you to task in much the same way." He looked down, studying the IV line connected to the back of his hand. There was a bit of redness around the point where the needle had gone in. "My… timing would have left something to be desired, but that would have had little bearing on the truth of what was said." He sighed. "I trained you to evaluate a situation. I taught you to put emotional concerns aside and look at facts. And according to the facts—"

"I know," Tim interrupted. "You're going to twist this around again and try to make me feel better by telling me I was one hundred per cent right to dump on you. Let me save you the trouble. You goofed. She died. I was going through a bad time. You weren't around. I wanted somebody to blame. You practically volunteered." He shook his head.

"You taught me a lot, Bruce," he said as he moved the chair closer to the bed. "But there was one thing I learned from my dad before I even met you." He placed his hand on Bruce's forearm. "My dad told me never to kick a person when he was down. I should've listened." He closed his eyes. "And, Steph… Stephanie made her choices. If you'd handled… sorry! If _things_ had been handled another way, maybe she would've chosen differently, but from the time I met her she… she always had something to prove. To her dad. To me. To you." He shook his head. "I think there's a difference between blame and responsibility. And the only person I _blame_ for what happened to her is Black Mask."

Bruce gripped Tim's shoulder. "I do carry some responsibility," he said.

Tim nodded slowly. "You, me, and everyone she ever met." He sighed. "Let me tell you about something that happened last semester. I was thinking about it a lot on the flight in to Gotham. There I was, sitting in a lecture hall with about a thousand other freshmen. We were discussing reasons for criminal behavior. We started with root causes and went from there. In the second half of the class, the prof opened up the floor for discussion instead of telling us what _he_ thought we should think." He smiled. "Once the class got over its collective shock, this one started talking about socio-economic status and that one mentioned racism. Someone brought up the lousy public schools in the inner cities, then we got into apathy, violent arcade games, you know the drill. Anyway, somewhere in the middle of it all, it hit me. In the entire discussion, nobody once mentioned that not everybody from the wrong side of the tracks ends up knifing people in the subways. There are plenty of people out there who come face to face with racism on a regular basis and turn out to be decent, law-abiding folks. In that entire discussion, not once did anybody _hint_ that criminals, some of them at least, _choose_ the paths they take. Maybe they've got a lot stacked against them, and maybe that helps to explain why they make the choices they do. But once they've made their choice… they don't get… they shouldn't get a 'pass' because of a lousy childhood, or because some cashier short-changed them or because they got shaken down for lunch money in middle school."

He bit his lip. "Steph made her choices. She probably would have made different ones if things had been different… If she'd never been Robin… If she'd never been Spoiler… If her dad hadn't been the Cluemaster… If she hadn't lived below the poverty line… but whatever hand she was dealt, she chose to play it the way she did. And I can't keep blaming you for that." He squeezed Bruce's shoulder. "And you can't blame yourself, either. Not for…"

Afterwards, Tim was never quite sure whether he had leaned forward or whether Bruce had pulled him into the embrace. In the final analysis, it didn't matter. They couldn't turn the clock back to the way things had been before—too much had changed for that to be possible. But the gulf that had sprung up between them was not so wide that it couldn't be bridged. They simply needed to work on it.

* * *

"Dick's sorry he couldn't make it," Jim said a few evenings later. "He had some business that wouldn't wait."

Bruce nodded. "I told him I understood earlier. The city…"

"Takes precedence," Jim finished. "At least that's what you believe." He shrugged. "You're sounding better. Are you?"

Bruce sighed. "The respiratory therapy is helping. Although," he added with a grimace, "I suspect the chest physiotherapy may leave bruises." For the last several days, he had spent several intervals lying on his side, while Evan pounded his torso until he felt like a side of beef. He had to admit that it _was_ easier to breathe after those sessions, though. He reached for the incentive spirometer. "This will only take a minute."

Jim chuckled. "Your boys have been telling me horror stories about the lengths you'll go to in order to flout medical orders." He shook his head. "I'm just not seeing it."

Bruce exhaled, closed his lips tightly around the sprirometer's mouthpiece, and inhaled slowly. He timed six seconds mentally and then exhaled again. Jim watched with interest as he repeated the process a further nine times. Then he put the machine back on the night table. "It was explained to me," he said, "that failure to comply in this instance might not be advisable when my lawyer is attempting to prove my sanity." He shook his head at Jim's laughter. "Dick may have a point. Besides," he added, "it's not as though I have anything else to occupy myself with between visits."

"Ah." Jim understood. "I remember the boredom from my last hospital stay."

Bruce sighed. "The painkillers make it difficult for me to concentrate enough to read." He gestured vaguely to the stack of _Ellery Queen's_ magazines next to the spirometer. "It's getting better, but not quickly enough. And yes," he added, "I do realize that if I'm bored, it's a positive sign. It's still… unpleasant." He leaned back against the pillows.

"I'm told," Jim said, "that you'll probably get a television once you get into Intermediate Care."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "I can't imagine that the quality of programming has improved in the last two years."

His eyelids felt heavier. "Thanks for coming," he said. "Sorry I'm not better company just…"

Jim's hand was at his temple. "The meds. I know." He smiled. "Rest easy, son. I'll let myself out."

His gaze rested for a moment on Bruce's hand, where the IV tube connected. "Bruce," he said frowning at the red blotches, "do you have any allergies they need to know about, here? I think you're breaking out."

There was no answer. Jim shrugged tolerantly. Whatever it was, Bruce was probably already in the best place to have the matter attended to.

* * *

At five minutes before one o'clock the next day, Barbara wheeled her way along the corridor toward Bruce's room. Dick hadn't made it in from patrol until after dawn. He'd stopped by the hospital at five a.m. and then come home and collapsed in bed. Barbara felt bad about missing the nine a.m. visiting slot, but she hadn't been able to get away until now. She halted her progress down the hallway when she heard a man's voice calling her name. "Doctor Wiacek, hello," she said. "I was just on my way to see… Brewster."

"I'd figured as much," Wiacek said. "That's why I stopped you. He's… he's not in that room anymore."

"Oh?" She paused. "Where is he?"

The doctor's expression was somber. "I suppose it's not entirely unexpected," he said. "I've seen it happen more and more often in cases like his, though I'd hoped…" He stopped himself.

"Earlier today," he said, "we ran some routine tests on the patient, like we do every morning. When the lab sent back the results, however," he paused. "We discovered that Mr. Jameson had contracted an MRSA infection." The doctor shook his head. "We've moved him to Isolation."


	15. Ch 15: Under the Weather, Over the Storm

_I can't lie,  
Baby I still cry sometimes.  
But I've come a long way  
Towards gettin' you out of my mind. _

I'm still under the weather  
But I'm over the storm  
I still miss the shelter  
Of your loving arms  
But what I thought would kill me  
Has just made me strong  
I'm still under the weather  
But I'm over the storm_"Still Under the Weather," Skip Ewing, Michael White, L.E. White_

* * *

Thanks to Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

"Still Under the Weather" written by Skip Ewing, Michael White, and L.E. White. Performed by Shania Twain on her _Shania Twain_ CD. (Mercury Nashville, 1993).

* * *

**Chapter 15: Under the Weather, Over the Storm**_  
_

"Why wasn't I informed?" Dick demanded. He'd covered the distance from Wayne Tower (now commonly referred to as the Patrick Morgan building) to the trauma center in less than thirty minutes. "Did I or did I not make it clear that I was to be notified of any change in his condition?"

Barbara placed a hand on his forearm. "Dick…"

Wiacek's shoulders slumped. "Come with me, both of you," he said quietly. "I need to show you something."

He turned on his heel and walked off. Dick and Barbara exchanged a look, then fell in behind him.

The doctor led them around a corner and into a large ward. A row of beds, separated by curtains into makeshift cubicles, ranged along each of the two longer walls. Dick counted off ten enclosures on each side. All were occupied. Wiacek led them down the center aisle, and then through the door at the far end. They found themselves in a larger room. In addition to the beds along the walls, a double row of cubicles ran down the middle of the room, creating two aisles. As he led them along a slow circuit, stopping now and again to read a chart, and perhaps to add a notation, the two could see that here, too, each bed contained a patient. Wiacek wasn't finished. He escorted them out of the ward and into a wide corridor. Dick blinked at the line of hospital cots along one wall.

"What hap…?" He caught himself, remembering. He knew damned well what had happened—he'd been out last night trying to contain the damage. "The natural gas pipeline explosion in Burnley," he said slowly. He hated… _hated_ nights like the one he'd just had. He preferred it when there was some criminal mastermind—or even some idiot messing around—upon whom he could vent his fury. In this case, however, the explosion appeared to have been caused by an internal leak. Dick supposed that the insurance companies were currently conducting their own investigations. He'd spent the wee hours of the morning pulling survivors from the rubble before the emergency crews arrived.

Wiacek nodded. "Between the Burnley explosion, the high volume of heatstroke cases we've been seeing over the last few days, and our 'run-of-the-mill' emergencies…" He sighed. "We've been working non-stop since about four this morning. We found out about Mr. Jameson's condition around ten. Our first priority was to begin treating this new development, _however_, as you can see, he is not the only patient currently in need of care. He's not even the most critical." Wiacek pushed up his glasses and rested his hand on his eyes for a moment. "I imagine," he added, "that one of our staff would have telephoned you with an update as soon as we had the breathing space."

Dick shook his head, chastened. "I'm sorry. I should have realized that there was a good explanation before I came charging in here." He forced a smile. "I guess, the fact that you didn't rush to notify me means Bruce—Brewster's condition isn't that serious?"

"Oh, it's serious," Wiacek countered. "But we caught it early, and it seems to be responding well to treatment so far… So, at this point, I'd say I'm cautiously optimistic that we've got the situation under control."

Dick exhaled slowly. "What are we dealing with?" He asked. "What exactly _is_ this MRSA?"

"Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus," Wiacek said promptly. "In layman's terms, it's a strain of staph infection that's immune to the antibiotics that we'd normally use to counter it. Nasty one."

Dick nodded his comprehension, but he was frowning. "How could he have contracted it? With all the precautions we were taking in ICU…"

Wiacek nodded. "What you need to remember is that Staphylococcus Aureus—Staph A, as we call it—is a normal thing to find on the skin of a healthy person. The problem arises, when it gets inside the body—and the risk of that increases when the patient is on an IV or catheter—it can result in a minor infection. Usually, we treat it with methicillin, and all's well."

"Except that Bruce's infection is resisting the methicillin." Dick nodded. "So…"

"So we're using vancomycin instead. We're monitoring the situation carefully, and so far, Mr. Jameson is showing no signs of allergy nor of resistance to the medication." He smiled thinly. "I can't make any guarantees at present, but it would appear that we're past the crisis on this one."

Dick blinked. Slowly, he allowed himself a smile. "So. What happens now?"

"Now," Wiacek replied, "we continue to administer the vancomycin intravenously for the next five to ten days. After that, we'll switch to oral administration, and, assuming that he's sufficiently recovered from his other condition, we'll transfer him to Intermediate Care at that time." He sighed. "I'm going to have to restrict visits to immediate family members, at least until he's out of Isolation, though. Possibly even longer—the infection is going to tire him out physically."

Dick nodded slowly. "So that means…"

"It means that the visits can not initially exceed fifteen minutes every six hours. And protective clothing will need to be worn at all times."

Barbara squeezed Dick's arm. "Guess that means you and Tim, then," she said ruefully.

Wiacek's eyebrows shot up. "I was under the impression that the other young man was just a friend of the patient."

"Bruce obtained legal guardianship over him about three years ago, when his father died," Barbara broke in coolly. "I can show you a copy of the paperwork, should you need it."

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Wiacek said. He turned to Dick. "As long as you've no objections."

Dick shook his head. "None whatsoever."

* * *

It was a week before Bruce was able to leave the isolation ward for the step-down unit. It took three more for Dr. Wiacek to sign the order that transferred him to the adjoining convalescent care center.

Dick smiled as he walked alongside Bruce's wheelchair two days later. The building still felt new. It _smelled _new. He wondered why that surprised him. The city had held the groundbreaking ceremony four years earlier, shortly after the No Man's Land had ended, when ready cash for rebuilding had poured in like water from government coffers, Wayne Enterprises, and LexCorp. The facility had opened its doors less than a year ago.

"I like it," he commented to Bruce as they made their way slowly back from the physical therapy department. Bruce had stubbornly refused the younger man's offer to push the chair, and his forehead was now beaded with perspiration as he rolled himself along. "It's bright, airy, low patient-to-staff ratio…"

"Do you work…" he coughed violently. Dick leaned forward, but Bruce waved him off as he raised an inhaler to his lips and released a burst of medication. "Do you work," he repeated, "for the media relations department here, as well?"

"Sorry."

Bruce didn't say anything further until they were back at his room. The security guard that accompanied them moved forward to open the door. The tall woman's presence was currently Bruce's only reminder that he was still a prisoner. He wheeled his way into the room without acknowledging her.

Dick followed, shooting her an apologetic glance. She shrugged and returned a faint smile. "I'll be out here if you need anything," she murmured as she closed the door behind them.

The minute the door shut, Dick started to apologize.

"Don't." Bruce cut him off.

"You okay?"

Bruce nodded. "I'll have to be. Rae will be here shortly." He put a hand to his chin and winced. "I suppose I should… make the effort to appear presentable."

"Right." Dick bent down, offering Bruce a shoulder for leverage. It was all the assistance that Bruce would accept at the moment. The MRSA, in combination with over five weeks confined to bed had taken their toll. His legs couldn't yet carry him more than a step or two unaided. Once out of the chair, Bruce reached for the two canes and deliberately walked the five paces to the bathroom.

"Can't have her see you looking lousy when you're in a hospital or anything," Dick called after him.

Bruce didn't answer.

A moment later, Dick heard water running through the closed door.

"It's not that," Bruce called. Dick shook his head as he heard the beginning of another coughing fit.

"Bruce? You need anything?"

The coughs stopped. The faucet turned off, but the whine of the electric razor drowned out all further conversation. Dick waited until Bruce was finished shaving before asking, "So if it's not that, then…"

The door opened a crack. "Come in. I can't shout."

Dick obeyed, pulling the door wider. Given the size of the bathroom, he didn't walk in all the way, but chose instead to lounge against the doorframe. Bruce was combing his hair. "Then…?" Dick repeated.

Bruce sighed. "It's in my…" he coughed slightly, then recovered. "In my best interest to appear well. I'd prefer that the hearing not be delayed any more than it needs to be."

"Oh." Dick nodded. "It won't be much longer," he said. "And then…"

Bruce flinched. For months now, he'd been keeping his focus on one goal: to pass the hearing and get free of Arkham. He hadn't been planning any farther ahead than that. It suddenly occurred to him that the hearing was only the beginning. Once outside, he realized, he was going to be facing a changed landscape. How changed, he had no way of knowing.

"Bruce?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing," he said lightly. Pause. "Could you wait for me in the room for a moment?"

"Huh? Oh… sure, Bruce." The bathroom door shut as Dick moved away.

Bruce looked at his reflection in the mirror. "And then…" he repeated. "After the hearing… what happens next?"

* * *

When Rae arrived twenty minutes later, Bruce was sitting up in bed reading one of the mystery magazines that Dick had brought.

"I have another copy of your case file," she said, once the pleasantries were out of the way.

Bruce reached for it. "How are things looking?"

Rae's eyes fell on the wheelchair near the head of the bed. She raised an eyebrow.

"It's temporary," Bruce said, frowning.

"_How_ temporary?"

"Is that important?"

"Yes!" Rae caught herself. She took a deep breath. "Everything is important at this juncture. From this point onward, everything counts." Quietly, she added, "There's no use calling the hearing unless you've recovered—mentally _and _physically.

She pulled up one of the wooden chairs and sat down. "We've got to convince the judge that you no longer require in-patient treatment. Dr. Morgenstern is prepared to testify to that effect. Although, given his current condition, we can't expect the same from Dr. Arkham, we can certainly make do with his notes from your therapy sessions."

"They survived the fire?"

"Copies."

Bruce looked doubtful. "Are you certain that they would work to our advantage?"

"The more recent ones? Definitely. As far as the earlier material goes… the older it is, the less relevant it is."

She waited for his nod. "Getting back to business…"

Bruce heard her out. He wasn't surprised to hear her state that his first months at Arkham would have little to no bearing on the hearing. And with Alex on board, there was no need for another psychiatrist to assess him. "So…" Bruce waited.

"So. The main hurdle right now is your physical condition." She smiled. "Just to state the obvious: the PT is important. Your attitude is important. Your adherence to medical orders? _Beyond_ important." The smile vanished. "I mean it. If it's recommended that you make two complete circuits of this floor with your canes, then make _two_ circuits. Not three. Not even if you think you can. Call it discipline. Call it playing a role. Call it whatever you have to, so long as it gets you to follow instructions."

She eyed Bruce meaningfully, almost daring him to challenge her. She noted with satisfaction that he did not—although his eyes burned through her. She waited. "Well?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "I can manage that. Short-term at least."

Her smile broadened. "That's probably the most sensible thing you've said since this whole thing began." The grin faded. "You've got your work cut out for you, though. I'm told you'll probably be here another two weeks. After that, as you know, I've made arrangements for you to be remanded to the psych ward here at Saint Swithin's. When that happens, though, I'm going to submit our petition for the new hearing. So, hopefully," and now the smile was back in full force, "in less than a month, you're going to walk out of here a free man."

* * *

"Dick," Lucius Fox called after him, "do you have a minute?"

Dick slowed his pace so that the CEO could catch up with him. "I was just heading back from lunch, sir." He caught himself as Lucius held up a warning hand. "Okay," he said, giving in. "Lucius." Despite the other man's insistence, he still felt uncomfortable addressing Fox by his first name. Dick supposed it was because he'd been a fourth-grader the first time they'd met. Back then, there'd been no question of calling the man anything other than 'Mr. Fox.' Old habits died hard.

"I'll write you a note," Lucius said dryly. "This has waited long enough."

The smile that had been forming on Dick's lips dropped abruptly. Without another word, he followed him back to the CEO's office, sparing a mumbled greeting for Lucius' secretary.

Lucius shut the door to the inner office firmly behind them. "You might want to sit down."

Dick obeyed.

"I have to tell you," Lucius said as he opened up his desk drawer, "this is impressive work. It wasn't easy to unravel." He passed a computer printout across the polished oak surface. "Here."

Dick reached for it automatically. As his gaze slid over the flow chart, he felt his heart thud. He glanced up. Lucius was watching him, gauging his reaction. Dick sighed. "I guess an apology isn't going to set things right," he admitted. "I wanted to do what was best for the company and for Bruce, and I—"

Lucius nodded. "It's a brilliant setup. If you didn't do it, I wouldn't mind hiring the person who did." He frowned. "I… hope you weren't expecting that the day after his release, Bruce would be able to walk back in here as though nothing happened."

"Wouldn't he?" Dick blinked. He gestured at the printout. "Like it shows here, Bruce still holds a super-majority of WE stock. There's no way that he could be forced out."

"I agree," Lucius said. "The board can't fire him _per se_." His expression was troubled.

"They called a meeting yesterday afternoon," he continued. "The situation was discussed. Issues were raised." He looked down. "I wish," he said slowly, "that I'd been the person to uncover this handiwork," he motioned to the printout. "There might have been a way to bury it again. Unfortunately, it was discovered by one of our accounting wizards." Lucius shook his head. "It's still not public, but it _will_ come out." He took a deep breath. "I'm not about to disclose to you who said what in that meeting, or how any of us voted. Depending on how well you know the members of the board, you can probably guess. The general feeling," he winced, "is that Bruce is an embarrassment to the company. The board doesn't want him to come back. And if he decides to ignore that sentiment, most of the members are prepared to resign." He shook his head. "I don't think I need to remind you that the reason that you supposedly liquidated your shares in the first place was to mitigate the impact that Bruce's arrest had on this corporation. If eighty per cent of the board quits…"

Dick shook his head. "Where does that leave Bruce?"

"The board feels that that there's no real problem if he remains the owner of the corporation. But they want him to step down voluntarily as president and chairman of the board." Lucius grimaced. "If Bruce will consent to that, we're willing to name him president emeritus." He steepled his fingers. "Another option would be a generous severance package, but knowing Bruce, I think he'd probably prefer the former."

Dick absorbed that. 'President emeritus' was, when all was said and done, an empty title, albeit an honorable one. "Is there any chance that this could blow over, given time?" He asked.

"Possibly," Lucius nodded. "I wish I could be more optimistic than that. And I know that for all his… his seeming nonchalance about the day-to-day workings of this company, Bruce cared. And this is going to come as a blow to him."

Dick nodded. "I'll talk to him… after the hearing."

"If you don't," Lucius said, "I'll have to. Or someone else on the board will. I think this would be better coming from one of us."

The CEO drew a deep breath. "Have you given any thought to your plans once Bruce is free?"

Dick shook his head. "Not really. I'll probably stick around for awhile—at least until I know he's okay. And my fiancée's father still lives here so…"

"I understand. And I know that the main reason you're working here is because you've been trying to keep an eye on things in Bruce's absence. Tell me. Are you happy in media relations?"

He hadn't really thought about it. Media relations was a way to keep abreast of the latest developments coming through the pipeline. It was a reason to get up in the morning, and a means of satisfying the work ethic that his parents had ingrained in him long ago. "I… yeah, I guess so," he said, realizing too late that he probably sounded less enthusiastic than he should—especially once he considered that Lucius had gotten him the job in the first place.

The CEO didn't take offense. "The reason I'm asking is because a junior position is opening up in risk management. In the event that you're looking for a change, I think you'd stand a good chance if you chose to apply."

Dick blinked. After the bombshell that Lucius had just dropped…

As if reading his mind, Lucius leaned forward. "I have nothing to do with the hiring process for this one. And it's not a bribe. But it occurred to me that Bruce might find the situation easier to cope with if he knew that you were involved with the company at a higher level. This position would allow you to use more of your skills. I think you'd find it interesting. Moreover, since you've gone public with your other activities, I think that we'll be able to factor in your… ahem… unconventional work experience." He flipped his eyeglasses up and immediately let them drop to the bridge of his nose. "I'd say that the level of planning and risk assessment you'd be able to bring to the position would more than compensate for the level of formal education that you're currently lacking."

That was one way to spin it, Dick thought. Of course there was always the chance that, once the board dropped its bombshell, Bruce would see Dick's willingness to continue working here as a betrayal. "I'll consider it," he said finally. "Thank you for your recommendations." He left the office as quickly as he could without running.

* * *

Batman shifted his weight onto his left leg while kicking high with his right. His boot connected forcefully with the thug's wrist, and the Glock tumbled to the asphalt.

Before the man could fully process what had occurred, he was reeling back, a sudden pain exploding upon his nose and upper lip. He slammed hard into the side of the building. On reflex, he put a hand to his face. It came away bloody. His nose was starting to throb. He touched it gingerly and winced when he felt that the bone was moving more than it should have been able to. At the sight of the masked man bearing down on him, he held up his hands, palms out. He spared barely a glance for his fallen comrades.

The vigilante finished restraining the mob enforcer's wrists with plastic cuffs. "Five perps ready for pickup, Oracle. Pass it on."

Barbara relayed the information to the GCPD dispatcher, even as she winced at the visual on her screen. Yes, the men had charged him, weapons drawn, but Dick wasn't usually this ruthless. She shook her head. Dick had told her about the conversation with Lucius when he'd come home from work, before running off to the hospital. After she'd let him vent, though, she'd thought he had accepted it.

"Everything okay?" She asked.

"What? Oh." Over the monitor, she watched Dick review his handiwork. When he spoke again, he sounded almost… guilty. "I had a notion about the current situation. We'll talk when I get in."

Barbara smiled. "No reports of criminal activity at the moment. We can ta—"

"Batman out." The channel went dead.

She raised an eyebrow. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought he was afraid of what her reaction to his plan might be…

* * *

Several hours later, Barbara was no closer to divining Dick's thoughts. It was starting to irritate her. Dick, on the other hand, seemed interested only in his second cup of coffee. Finally, she could stand it no longer. "You said before you'd had an idea?"

Dick downed another gulp of the bittersweet beverage. "It finally hit him today," he said. "Everything's going to change after he gets out."

"Oh." Barbara reached for her own mug. "I can relate. After the shooting, when the doctors told me they'd done everything possible and I'd have to manage the rest on my own…" She winced. "I think that terrified me more than finding Joker on the other side of my door did that night." She rolled over to the coffeepot for a refill.

"He hasn't been back to the manor at all since the arrest. And I've suggested it a few times."

She paused with her hand midway to the handle of the pot. "That'll be hard for him. Alone up there, I mean." She shook her head sympathetically. "Sure, he likes his privacy but…" she shook her head. "What's he going to _do_ with a hundred and fifty rooms? Even when it was the both of you plus Alfred, it was a bit much… How's he going to cope?"

"I don't know, and it scares me, too." He set the mug down on the table. "He won't have the cave. He won't have Wayne Enterprises. It wouldn't be fair to you for me to drive up to Crest Hill to check up on him every night, and sooner or later he'd start to resent it…"

Barbara nodded. "It's been a rough two years. We made it, but it's been a strain. And I'd be lying if I wasn't thinking about how nice it might be to be able to get away for a weekend—just the two of us." She smiled. "So you said you had an idea?"

Dick took a deep breath. "I thought maybe he could stay with us for a little while." Seeing the expression on Barbara's face, he added quickly, "Just until he can manage."

She was shaking her head. "No. No, NO, _NO!_ Dick, I have been waiting for months for this to be over, so that we can finally have time for us. I have watched you juggle Batman, Bruce, Arkham's bureaucracy, PMWE, and whatever troubleshooting the Titans and the Outsiders have needed from time to time. I have turned down dinner invitations with friends because I didn't want to feel like I was making excuses for you, and I didn't want to make you choose between Bruce and me."

"And I wouldn't choose Bruce over _you_," Dick protested, "all things being equal. But… he's not ready to go it alone. He's well enough to be discharged, but not to live cut off from…" He broke off. "Besides, you and he've been getting along just fine when he's been here for the weekends."

"Sure," Barbara countered. "When we're both walking on eggshells to make sure we don't upset each other, I can handle a weekend. And then I can take the five days after it to relax and prepare for the next one. It would be different if he were here all the time." She forced a smile. "We're too much alike. Both of us want to be in charge and we want to do things our way. He's been working on that—I don't deny it. It's made things easier. But if he moves in, then either we'll end up at each other's throats or… or he'll keep biting his tongue and walking on eggshells and… and that's not healthy." She braced her hand on the counter. "He can't stay here, Dick. I'm sorry. That's final."

Dick didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I know. It's just going to be hard to break it to him, is all."

Barbara sighed. "He asked. I said 'no'. You can tell him my reasons." She stopped. "What?"

Dick shifted guiltily. "He… he didn't exactly ask. I kinda offered."

_Without asking me???_ She took a deep breath and counted to ten silently. "Well… you can tell him that we were discussing it and it's not going to work." She hesitated. "Please say you didn't talk him into it."

Silence.

"No."

Dick shook his head slowly. "I won't tell him he can't stay with us when he's in the kind of shape he's in now, Babs. I can't."

"If you don't, I will."

"That's right," he shot back. "You've had more experience at it than I have."

Barbara's hand flew to her mouth even as Dick realized what he had said.

"I… Babs… I didn't mean…"

She bit her lip. "But that's what you were thinking of," she said. "And it's always going to be there, under the surface." She spun the chair around, as she felt her eyes begin to sting. "I said it before, Dick," she whispered. "I am _sorry_ that I threw you out after Firefly destroyed the circus. I was wrong. But I am not wrong about this." She headed for the front door.

He took a step after her retreating chair. "Babs, wait."

"I can't. I have to get upstairs and check on a few things. You know there's a crisis going on now in Kahndaq. And a famine in Qurac. And something else somew—"

He opened his mouth to call after her again, but she cut him off.

"You're exhausted. You've got another busy day tomorrow. And if we talk now, one of us is going to say something _else_ we won't be able to take back. We'll discuss this again when we've both calmed down. Please."

She rolled the rest of the way to the door, and pulled it open. On the threshold, she paused. "Get some sleep."

"Will you be coming back down tonight?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. The Kahndaq situation is pretty bad right now. The JSA's been pumping me for intel for the last two days and I really need to check up on it. If there've been no new developments, then maybe."

Dick nodded. "Don't be up too late. You need rest, too, you know." He tried for casual, but his voice cracked.

She looked back at him, nodded sadly, and wheeled out into the hallway.

When she returned, some two hours later, she saw that Dick had placed the mugs and coffee spoons in the sink and left them to soak. He normally washed them out and put them on the drainage board, Barbara thought to herself. He was still upset, but not so much so that he'd left everything on the table.

She sighed, opened the fridge, and saw that he'd already made his lunch. After a moment's hesitation, she slipped in one of the imported chocolate truffles she'd been saving for a special occasion. Then, she turned back to the sink to finish washing up.

* * *

Dick usually phoned her at eleven, when he took his first break. Barbara watched the LED display on her clock flash 11:07… 11:08… When she heard the telephone ring at 11:09, she didn't even check the caller ID. "Dick?"

But it was her father's voice on the other end. "Sorry, honey. Just me."

"Oh." She winced as she heard her own disappointment. "Hi, Daddy." At any other time, she would have welcomed his call, but…

"You don't have to sound so enthusiastic," Gordon chuckled.

"I'm sorry."

"Barbara? Is everything alright?"

She never _had_ been able to keep secrets from him. Not even the ones that involved capes and Kevlar. "Sure," she said, a bit too brightly. "I just thought Dick might be calling around now. He…" She stopped. Who was she trying to kid? "No, everything is not alright. I… last night, we had a fi… I… I think I really did it this time."

"Ah." Her father sounded disappointed, but not overly distressed. "Not to downplay, but I'd say that what the two of you have is probably strong enough to weather an occasional rough patch."

Barbara took a deep breath. "I'm not so sure. It's… he said something last night. After I said something. But he had no business making a decision like that without asking me. But I probably would have done the same thing, but…"

"Okay…"

She had to smile as she realized what she probably sounded like. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"Not much." He chuckled.

After a moment, Barbara joined in.

"Better?" He asked.

"A little."

"That's good." He waited a moment. "I usually don't pry," he said, "but if you want to talk…"

She hesitated. "I don't know how much good it can do. The problem is," she said slowly, "he wasn't wrong… but neither was I." She took another deep breath. "Maybe I should just tell you about it."

* * *

Jim listened as Barbara went over the argument she'd had with Dick. He shook his head slowly. "As I understand it," he said, "you both agree that Bruce is going to have a hard time managing on his own. The real issue is that what's best for him isn't what's best for the two of you."

"That's a big part of it," she agreed miserably. "If it were only that, I wouldn't be this upset. I mean, sure Dick should have called me before making the suggestion to Bruce, and it's irritating that he didn't, but I understand..." A smile crept into her voice. "I'm actually glad you know about what your little girl used to do late at night, because I don't have to explain now how I know this. When we're in the field, we don't always get the luxury of discussing each action before we undertake it. The general rule was always 'prepare as much as possible, but think on your feet'. And I can totally get that Dick saw that Bruce was going through a crisis and went with his gut instinct to resolve the issue. Okay, it wasn't the best solution, but I can see why he thought it might work. And—"

"Barbara," her father's voice was gentle, but firm. "Why don't you tell me what the other part is?"

_Because I'm not proud of it, and it tears me up inside when I know I've disappointed you._ "I guess I'd better." Damn. Were her eyes watering? She bit her lip. "You know that he and I broke up for a while before all of this happened. The thing is…"

He waited until he'd heard the entire story. "Oh."

She wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere. "Oh?"

"What do you want me to say, Honey? It's in the past. You made it up and you moved on."

"Did we? After last night…?"

He sighed. "Some hurts are harder to get over than others. And I know that you've both been through some rocky times." He paused. "It might help to remember that putting something behind you isn't the same as forgetting it ever happened."

"I know. But… he didn't call today."

"That doesn't necessarily mean he's still upset, you know."

She blinked. "What else could it be?"

Gordon harumphed. "He might be worried that _you_ are." A crazy thought occurred to him. It was a nice idea, but it would never work… would it? _Could_ it?

"Sweetheart, before I start making suggestions, I need to know whether you're actually looking for advice, or whether you just wanted a sounding board."

"Um…" She hesitated. "I don't know. Both?"

"Alright. In that case, I have two questions for you. One: how important is it for you to be completely and utterly in the right?"

"I don't understand."

"I think you do," he countered. "Is that worth more than your relationship? Be honest with yourself, even if you don't want to tell me. Because I've been there, and I can tell you that it's a mighty lonely place. Put it another way. If you knew with absolute certainty that apologizing for last night would set things right, would you?"

"But I wasn't wrong."

"I never said you were. But you've just finished telling me that you could have handled things better."

She considered that. "What was the second question?"

"How open to compromise are you? From what I gather, you can manage a two-day visit, but you don't want Bruce to stay with you indefinitely. And on that last bit, I will back you one hundred and ten per cent."

Barbara mulled that over. "I give it five days before the strain starts to get to me. A week before I lose it."

"Alright." He smiled to himself. "Now what's Dick's number at work?"

"You're not going to yell at…?" She said nervously.

He chuckled. If she was trying to protect Dick, he would consider that an indicator that the relationship was still salvageable. "I won't yell," he promised. "I just want to ask him if he could meet me…"

* * *

"I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised that you knew how to get onto the grounds." He'd found Gordon putting fresh flowers on Jason's grave. From the look of it, Thomas and Martha Wayne's double headstone had received the same treatment.

"I saw where Bruce kept the key." He carried the last bouquet over to Alfred's marker. "You'll probably want to arrange for someone to cut the grass before he gets out."

Dick nodded. "I'll look into it. I'm getting some… friends to clean up the house and cave next week, anyway. One of them can probably handle the grounds, too." His expression turned serious. "I guess you've spoken to Barbara?"

The fatherly tone of voice dropped away. "Yes, I have. Come with me. I want to ask you about something."

A few minutes later, the two men were standing by a small dwelling situated about a half-mile from the manor house. Dick cocked a quizzical eyebrow. "Groundskeeper's cottage," he said. "What of it?"

"I was wondering what it would take to make it livable. As of the moment, does it have electricity, for example? Running water? Sound roof?"

Dick blinked. "Huh? Um… yeah. After the quake, Bruce had all of the buildings on the grounds renovated and brought up to code. It's solid enough, even it probably does need a good cleaning. Why?"

Gordon shrugged. "I was thinking… You and Barbara need time together. I need to give you your space. Bruce needs company…"

"If you're suggesting…"

"I don't think it would be a good idea to move _in_to the manor. When all's said and done, we're two stubborn individuals and I think we both need to be able to retreat under separate roofs. But… he won't be alone, and he won't be crowding you and Barbara."

Dick flinched. "I don't mind…"

"Not now, no. How about a month down the road?"

Silence.

"That's right," Gordon said. "You and he have also had your fallings out. And your apartment isn't really big enough to contain three tempers if it comes to that." He shook his head. "This way works for all of us. Now, about last night…"

Dick's features drooped. "How much did she tell you?"

"That's not important. Believe it or not, I do want to hear your version of it."

Dick hesitated.

"Keep in mind that I wouldn't be offering to move up here if I thought she was better off without you." He smiled grimly. "And my gun is at home. In the safe."

_That_ earned him an answering smile. The younger man sighed. "I suggested something without thinking it through. She called me on it, I got on the defensive, and things…"

"Snowballed?"

"Yeah."

Gordon grunted. "And now?"

Dick sighed. "I don't know. One of the reasons we broke up in the first place was because she thought I was spending too much time living in the past. And once the argument got underway, the _first_ thing I did, practically, was dredge up something I thought we'd put behind us." He shook his head. "I honestly believed I'd gotten beyond that."

"You don't 'get beyond' something by sweeping it under the rug and pretending it doesn't exist." He chuckled. "Or did growing up here," he gestured toward the manor, "not teach you that?"

Dick grinned, then sobered. "So… where does that leave us? I mean, I love Barbara. I want this to work out. And I thought I _was_ putting her first. But after last night…" He shook his head again. "I couldn't stand to think of Bruce alone up here. If she'd told me I had to pick between her and Bruce right that second…"

"He was your father for years before he made it official, Dick. If I were, hypothetically speaking, to have a stroke tomorrow, what do you think Barbara's first instinct would be?"

Dick considered. "But I wouldn't have had an issue with…"

"Maybe not right away." He hesitated. "Having a parent under your roof can get a bit awkward at… intimate moments. Do you want me to be any blunter, or can you take my meaning before we both get embarrassed?"

"No, sir." There was no way in hell that Dick was going to ask Gordon whether he was referring to what he _thought_ he was referring.

"Wise choice." His face seemed a bit redder than usual. "Now, I have three more questions for you. First: how important is it for you to be right?"

"Huh?" Dick thought for a moment. "If you're asking if I want Babs to apologize before we go any further, no. That's not necessary. If she's still willing to work on this, and Bruce is going to be taken care of…" He smiled ruefully. "I _was_ wrong to bring up…" How much had Barbara told her father?

"She _is_ sorry about that, you know."

"I know. I guess the short answer is I'd rather know how to solve a problem than worry about who to blame for it."

Gordon nodded. "That's fair. Next: how open to compromise are you? If, for example, Barbara was willing to have Bruce stay with you for a few days, what would be reasonable?"

Dick closed his eyes. "She's been okay with having him for the weekend. I guess two, maybe three days, as long as once a week we all got together and did something."

Jim smiled and held out his cellphone. "Call her. I'd say you two probably have a few things worth talking over. But before you do, there's one more thing I'd like to take care of regarding my living here—which brings us to 'question three'…"

* * *

"What's this?" Barbara asked, picking up the flat white box tied with red ribbon from its place on the desk.

Dick closed the door to the den behind him and grinned. "If you ask, I'm only going to tell you." He brought something else out from behind his back.

"Don't you da—oh!" She gasped. Dick was holding a potted arrangement of white carnations. A curtain of ivy spilled over the edge, with alyssums, blue clematis, phlox and African violets forming a wild border above it. From the center of the arrangement, a single red rose stood slightly higher than the carnations. "Dick… I…"

"I think I must have driven the florist crazy," he admitted, as he set the pot down on the kitchen table. "I wanted to make a message out of the arrangement, seeing as I never really was any good at writing love poetry. See, alyssum is supposed to calm anger, and clematis is for mental beauty," he bent down to kiss her forehead, "and Babs, you have a _beautiful_ mind."

She laughed and pulled him down so that his face was level with hers. "Okay," she said, hugging him. "I know a red rose is love. And white carnations are…?"

Dick's face took on the same hue as the aforementioned rose. "Umm… pure love."

"Oh." Her smile deepened. "And the others? The violets and…"

"Faithfulness. Ivy's for eternal fidelity. And phlox is united souls." He hugged her back. "I am so sorry I said—"

She put her finger to his lips. "I know. I'm sorry I got so upset."

"You had every right to. I shouldn't have suggested something that drastic to Bruce without checking—"

"You were thinking with your heart, Dick. And he _is_ going to need us when he gets out. Maybe more than he does now."

"Then…"

"Let's see how we do for four days. Maybe even a week." She sighed. "After that, I think it's going to be a bit much for me."

Dick nodded. "I understand. And…" he admitted, "I think it might be hard on me too. Your father had an idea though…"

As Barbara listened, she began to smile. "That works," she said. "That works really well."

Her expression turned serious. "You know… as much as I don't want to say it, Bruce _might_ go back to the old patterns. If he starts pushing everyone away again…"

She realized that she still hadn't opened the gift on the table, and wheeled back to get it.

Dick shook his head. "Your father already thought about that. He's not just _living_ in the cottage—he's _leasing_ it from me for the next year. We haggled over the rent a bit, but he talked me up to five dollars per month." He grinned. "See, a lease is a binding contract. Once Rae draws up the papers, and your dad and I sign them, there's no way Bruce could kick him out before the year's up."

Barbara gaped at him. "That…" she said starting to giggle, "that is pure evil brilliance! Of course you _know_ Bruce is going to—"

"Yeah. So don't tell him yet. Your dad said he'd take care of that when the timing was right." He smiled. "You didn't even open the box yet."

He was right. Barbara carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. "A chocolate laptop?" She asked grinning.

"Well, in case you need a quick byte."

It took a moment for the pun to sink in. "Now _that_ was just evil!" She exclaimed as Dick began to laugh. After a moment, she gave up and joined in.

In the living room, Jim Gordon smiled with satisfaction at the sounds seeping out into the den. It seemed as though his work here was done. Had he been a less reserved man, he might have whistled as he let himself out the front door.

* * *

"The two of you didn't discuss the matter beforehand," Bruce said when Barbara wheeled into the room later that evening.

Barbara sighed. So much for maintaining a poker face. "It's not like that," she hedged. "I mean, it's not that I don't want…"

He shook his head. "Barbara," he said gently, "it would never work. You know it as well as I do." His lips quirked. "Besides, when you initially entered my world, I obtained your promise not to kill. It would be unfair in the extreme to maneuver you into a position where you might…question that oath."

She gave a startled laugh. When had Bruce developed a sense of humor? "You'll stay with us for the first few days, though, right?" She asked, still smiling. "Sort of like a long weekend?"

Bruce blinked. He hadn't been expecting the offer. He nodded slowly. "I… thank you. I'd like that."

* * *

The next few days seemed to fly by as Bruce continued to progress physically. At the back of his mind, though, the impending hearing began to dominate his thoughts. When Selina arrived one afternoon armed with a pad and pencil, and cracking jokes about needing 'precise measurements' for the suit that he was to wear to the proceedings, even as she embraced him, it finally crystallized for him: this was really happening. He _was_ going to get out.

He wished that the idea didn't make his palms sweat. He looked at the calendar on the wall. It was mid-June. He had been arrested almost a full two years earlier. Bruce shook his head slowly, remembering. Six weeks in hospital until his broken leg had healed enough to allow his transfer to Arkham. Then, he'd spent the next twenty months shut away in that place before being sent here to Saint-Swithin's… he sighed mentally. The first eleven of those had been almost entirely by his own volition, he had to admit. Still, had he been willing to work with one of those other doctors, he wondered whether he would have truly made progress. Arkham's revolving door policy might have worked in his favor in the short-term—enough to get him out on the streets—but that wouldn't have been in his best interests. He knew that now.

And, faced with an imminent hearing, Bruce wondered again whether this was truly the best move. When he went out again, it would be to a world that knew that he had been Batman. What would that mean for his family? Dick, he was sure, was used to the idea by now. As was Barbara. Tim would suffer minimal impact, given that he'd likely be returning to the West Coast before long. Besides, Titans Tower was hardly without defenses. His thoughts turned to Selina and Helena. What risks would his presence pose in _their_ lives? And he _wanted_ them in his life… but how could he be that selfish? Shut them away for their safety on some remote estate somewhere patrolled by armed security? Selina would see that as a prison, and justifiably so.

Dick hadn't mentioned Wayne Enterprises—or should he start to think of that as 'Patrick Morgan' now? He assumed that everything was business-as-usual, but was it? And his personal finances… hadn't Dick said something about a lawsuit over a year ago? Had that been settled? He'd never been obsessed with his wealth. As long as he'd been able to live in the style that he was expected to, and finance his operations as Batman, he'd trusted Lucius and Alfred to keep track of the actual dollars and cents…

_Batman_. Bruce bit his lip. That was the big one. After nearly two years out of the suit, and with his identity now public knowledge, he didn't know whether it was in him to be Batman again. Worse, he didn't know if he wanted to be.


	16. Chapter 16: So Much To Live For

_I don't want to be alone  
That's all in the past  
This world's waited long enough  
I've come home at last!  
_

_And this time will be bigger  
And brighter than we knew it  
So watch me fly, we all know I can do it...  
Could I stop my hand from shaking?  
Has there ever been a moment  
With so much to live for?_

_Don Black and Christopher Hampton, "As If We Never Said Goodbye"  
_

Thanks to Will, Char, Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

"As If We Never Said Goodbye" lyrics by Don Black and Christopher Hampton. From the _Sunset Boulevard_ soundtrack (Decca Broadway: 1993). "There's A World Out There" lyrics by Kent Blazy and Skip Ewing. Recorded by Paul Brandt on _That's The Truth_ (Wea International: 1999).

* * *

**Chapter 16: So Much To Live For**

All in all, at first glance, Bruce didn't see an appreciable difference between the rehab center and the psych ward. The room was a bit larger. There were a few more guards in evidence in the corridors, in addition to the one seated outside his room—the one assigned to accompany him _personally_ on the ward. On the whole, though, the ward didn't feel like a maximum-security zone. Of course, once he pushed aside the window shade and faced the bulletproof, chicken-wire windows, the reality was only too obvious…

Someone knocked on the door. Bruce raised an eyebrow at that. After a moment, the knock sounded again. Odd. Usually, even if someone deigned to announce their presence, the knock was less a request for entry than an indication that someone was on their way in. It had been a long time since someone had actually implied that Bruce had some say in the matter.

"Come in?" He said finally.

The door opened to admit Alex Morgenstern. "How are you?" The psychiatrist asked.

Bruce couldn't quite stop the smile he felt forming on his lips. "Better," he replied simply. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "I appreciate your willingness to speak on my behalf at the hearing."

Alex looked pensive. "That's the main reason I wanted to see you ahead of time," he said. "I'll be telling this to your lawyer after I leave here, but thought I owed it to you to come and explain my position first."

That sounded decidedly less than encouraging. "Your… position," he repeated, keeping his voice level.

"How are you feeling about the proceedings?"

"Pardon?"

Alex sighed. "A long time ago, I asked you whether, if I could sign your release papers on the spot, you'd want to leave. Back then, I think we both knew the answer. If, on the other hand, I asked you the same question today, how would you respond?"

Bruce hesitated. "I want to leave," he said. "I do. But not if doing so at this time is premature."

Alex nodded. "Well, that's fair. I suppose that if you're considering that possibility, it would be accurate to say you have some doubts?"

His eyes narrowed. "Dr. Morgenstern, what are you trying to tell me?" As if he didn't know. His instincts were dead-on. This _was_ happening too soon, no matter what Rae had intimated. Somehow, he felt a small surge of satisfaction at the realization that his analysis was correct. Of course it was too soon—that was why he was having these doubts: deep down, he knew he wasn't ready.

The psychiatrist cleared his throat. "Well, first of all, as you know, Bruce, there are several recommendations that I can make. Please keep in mind that the judge is under no obligation whatsoever to act on them."

"Except that you're being asked to speak as an expert in my case."

Alex nodded. "There is that, I suppose. Very well. First, I can recommend that you remain as an inpatient, either here or in Arkham once the place is rebuilt. Second, I can ask that psychiatric care be terminated entirely." He shook his head, but he was smiling gently. "I don't think that either possibility is in your best interests at this time."

Unconsciously, Bruce leaned forward, curious.

"The recommendation that I'm planning to make is that you continue to undergo mandatory psychiatric counseling as an outpatient. Naturally, I'm more than willing to continue as your primary therapist, but if there's another qualified person with whom you'd be more comfortable, I'd be happy to stand aside, with the court's approval…"

Bruce was already shaking his head. "That won't be necessary, Doctor," he said. "I'm… satisfied with the arrangement." His eyebrows lifted. "You said 'first of all'."

Alex nodded. For the first time since Bruce had met him, he seemed nervous. "I've tried," he began, "to level with you whenever and wherever possible." He hesitated.

After a long pause, Bruce frowned. "Doctor?"

"Forgive me. I've been meaning to tell you this for some time now. I don't enjoy subterfuge, although sometimes it's necessary." He looked away. "In order for me to determine the best approach to take, when your case was initially assigned to me, it was necessary for me to ascertain how… aware of your circumstances you were."

Bruce nodded his understanding, though his expression remained perplexed.

"I had to know," Alex continued, "whether your indifference to your surroundings was genuine. So… when Dr. Arkham asked how I intended to approach your case, I requested his assistance."

_Wait just one minute…_ Bruce leaned forward, frowning again. "His… assistance?"

Alex's voice was gentle but unrelenting. "Bruce, it was _my _suggestion that Dr. Arkham threaten to revoke your privilege of receiving visits."

At Bruce's furious expression, Alex continued. "Whether you choose to believe me or not, I didn't plan on suspending it indefinitely. It was essential for me to know whether your withdrawal was so complete that the visits really _didn't_ matter, or whether you were putting on an act." The psychiatrist's jaw worked as he chewed on the inside of his lower lip.

Bruce turned away. "Congratulations, Dr. Morgenstern. Your experiment was successful. Leave."

Bruce waited for Alex's retreating footfalls and for the door to close before he turned back again. _How dared he? _Bruce's mind was reeling. How could Alex have been so underhanded? Their entire working relationship had been built on a foundation of deceit. Had he known this, he would never have let his guard down, never have opened up…

_And he would probably still be sitting like a lump in Arkham. Or in solitary in Blackgate, as the case might be. _

He brought his hand down hard on the laminated wooden headrest. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to give full vent to his feelings at this betrayal, but something stayed him. He pondered. He _wanted_ to be furious—but he wasn't.

"_It was necessary for me to ascertain how aware of your circumstances you were."_

Bruce nodded slowly. With or without the costume, he was a detective, a scientist, and a student of human nature. While he wasn't formally trained as a therapist, he _was_ somewhat knowledgeable on the subject of psychology. Alex had respected that. And, examining the situation as a psychologist might… Bruce was forced to admit that he probably would have done as Alex had.

He recalled a time when he had drawn out his comrades in the League, encouraging them to talk about their fears and failings, acted the confidant—when all the while, he'd been taking notes and devising protocols to use against them, should their allegiances shift.

He winced. He'd done exactly the same thing and for worse reasons. He'd manipulated people who had accepted him as a friend and colleague, all the while intent on formulating ways to tear them down. Alex had played him, true… but it had been with the aim of building him _up_.

Bruce took a deep breath, lifted the pillow off of his bed and set it on the floor. Then he sat down cross-legged upon it, closed his eyes lightly, stilled his body, and began an elementary meditation technique to order his thoughts. An image formed in his mind: a large rough-hewn piece of granite. As he let his thoughts slowly focus, he visualized a pickaxe chipping away at the block. Stone cracked and fell, bit by bit, piece by piece as a sculpture began to take form.

_Sometimes… a sharp blow may be the only way to allow an object to reach its potential._

He pondered that for awhile. His anger was still present, but it had receded to a more manageable level. He did not like being played. He was irritated that it hadn't even occurred to him that Alex might have been behind Jeremiah's threats. He'd let his personal feelings for the administrator blind him to other possibilities. Bruce winced. His reasoning had been sloppy… slipshod even. And that probably bothered him more than the fact that he'd been manipulated. Bruce felt himself relax a bit more, though he continued to reflect fully on the matter for an additional several minutes before he arose refreshed.

* * *

It was another two days before Alex returned. Bruce greeted him civilly enough, and the doctor's relief was apparent.

Bruce smiled. "You thought that I would see your… revelations as a betrayal."

"It crossed my mind." Alex's expression was serious. "You do realize what the hearing will entail, right? That you'll need to be present while we—myself, your lawyer, and the DA… discuss the particulars of your case in open court."

The smile fell away. "Yes."

Alex shook his head sadly. "I'd personally prefer it if you had the opportunity to be elsewhere while that part of the hearing transpires, but—"

Bruce rested his chin on his knuckles. "I don't have the option, so there's nothing to discuss," he said tersely. A thought struck him. "You'll have to discuss your methodology on the witness stand, of course." His eyes met Alex's without blinking. "That's why you decided to come clean about your… means of ensuring my participation."

The psychiatrist nodded. "That's part of it. The timing matters. Had you known earlier about the part I played in helping you come back from where you were, I doubt that you would have been willing to work with me as quickly. However, I believed then—and I still do now—that you have the right to know the entire truth before it comes out at the hearing."

"Do I?" Bruce demanded. "Or are there other things you've kept from me?"

Alex flinched. "That was the big one. I've tried to level with you as much as possible, but I'm not always cognizant of my underlying motives." He steepled his fingers. "I wish I could give you a better answer than 'I don't believe so', but I haven't lied to you yet and don't plan to start."

That much was true. Bruce's head dropped, almost imperceptibly. "Thank you for your candor." He sat up straighter. "I _can_ do this."

Alex nodded. "Bruce, before we got sidetracked the other day, I know you were experiencing some apprehension about the hearing." He watched the other man's reaction carefully as he continued. "In case you were wondering, it's normal. We've spent the better part of a year working toward this goal. We've built it up as _the_ object to strive for. And now, it's practically upon us." He smiled. "To be honest, I'd be somewhat surprised if you _weren't_ a little nervous." He shook his head, still smiling. "It doesn't mean we're rushing to set this up before you're able to deal with the outcome. It means you're nervous. Nothing less, nothing more."

Bruce nodded back.

He found himself reflecting on Alex's words with increasing frequency as the date of the hearing drew closer. And then, quite suddenly, there was only one day to go.

* * *

As soon as work was over, Dick headed for the hospital. As he made a beeline for the elevators, a set of doors slid open, and Selina emerged.

"Dick, hello!" She called over to him. "Are you just on your way up?"

He nodded and approached her rapidly. "How's he doing?"

She sighed ruefully. "Well enough to act like he's not worried about tomorrow. Worried enough that it's obvious he's putting on an act." She smiled. "At least everyone else is up there. I have to hustle. Karon's watching Helena, but she's got plans for later this evening, and I promised I'd be back early so she'd have time to get ready."

Her smile fell away. "He asked me not to bring her tomorrow. Said if there was the slightest chance that she was going retain any memories of the hearing, he didn't want her to see him in chains."

Dick winced. He'd been livid when Rae had brought up _that_ particular detail about the hearing. It didn't matter that restraints were a standard security precaution at this sort of proceeding, and that it had nothing to do with it being Batman at the defense table. Nobody was singling Bruce out for special security measures, but that didn't make them any less galling.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Do _you_ remember anything from when you were fifteen months old? I know _I_ don't. But he still thinks there's a possibility. Arrgh! If I didn't love him so much, I think I'd…" She let her voice trail off.

"I offered to hide a lock pick in the suit he'll be wearing," she said candidly. "Not that I think he should use it, but it occurred to me that, maybe, just knowing it was there would make the situation easier to take. He turned me down, though."

"Oh?" Dick smiled uncertainly.

"Right," she said. "I get where he's coming from. If they found the tool on him at this point, they'd probably lock him back up and bury the key. I don't blame him for not wanting to risk it. But, really, that means he's pinning everything on the hearing. I've never known him to not have some sort of backup."

Dick forced himself to smile. "Who says he doesn't?" For all he knew, it was the truth.

* * *

Bruce raised an eyebrow in greeting as Dick came in. "Everyone seems to think I need the support," he said dryly, gesturing toward the other occupants of the room.

The younger man grinned. "I would have been here sooner, but with traffic and all, well… So…"

"Please, don't tell me that 'tomorrow's the big day'," Bruce said. "If I weren't already aware of it, your combined presence here would be something of an indicator."

"Sorry." His expression turned serious. "And I'm sorry about the judge's ruling."

For a moment Bruce frowned in confusion. Then, realization dawned. "In the eyes of the law," he said, "my situation is no different than it would be were I the Joker. Or the Mad Hatter. From that perspective, it's only reasonable that I attend the proceedings in shackles."

He sighed, almost imperceptibly. Cass caught the action, and stretched out her hand toward his shoulder. Bruce shied away, shaking his head. "Unnecessary. Thank you, though."

Her hand dropped back to her side. "Okay," she said, "but…"

Bruce looked around the room, from Dick to Jim to Barbara to Cass to Tim and then back to Dick again. "I know," he said quietly. "You're all here for me. Whether I ask you to be or not." His voice fell to a whisper. "Whether I deserve it, or not. Whether I… show you I appreciate it…" and there was a lump in his throat as he forced himself to finish the sentence, "or n-not." He held up a hand as Dick took a step forward. "No. Wait." He took a deep breath, and then another. "I'm alright," he said, when he could trust his voice to remain steady. He forced a smile. "Really."

They nodded. "We know that already." Jim grinned. "Tomorrow, a few more people get to know it too."

There was an awkward pause.

"Well," Barbara said finally, "even though it's not really late yet, you probably should try to get some extra sleep." Impulsively, she leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I know it's a tall order, but try."

Bruce nodded. "Good point. I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said. "And… thanks."

* * *

Bruce leaned back against the padded leather chair and closed his eyes. The courtroom smelled faintly of disinfectant and lemon furniture polish, intermingled with perspiration, after-shave, cologne, and freshly-brewed coffee.

In the background, over the buzz of voices, he could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner. Footsteps padded down the worn carpeting. Now and then, he noted a creak as someone slid heavily into a seat.

He took a deep breath and tried to relax. A faint clinking jerked him abruptly out of his reverie. He glanced down at his hands. The cuffs on his wrists were partially obscured by his suit-jacket, and the short chain that linked them was nearly undetectable when he clasped his fingers together. All he had to do was look past his wrists however, to see the long chain that connected the shackles on his ankles to the handcuffs. Several links of chain extended past the cuffs, and secured them to the sturdy D-ring attached to the leather transport belt around his waist.

He sat up straighter, trying to find a position for his hands that he could maintain comfortably without feeling—or hearing—the restraints.

At his side, Rae leaned over. "How are you holding up?"

He affected a smile. "Never better." He'd said something similar to her several years ago, when she had represented him after Vesper Fairchild's murder. The difference was that he'd sounded a lot more convincing back then.

"It won't be long now," she said. "Just remember: we're trying to prove that you've been making some headway with your control issues." There was a hint of steel in her eyes that belied her cheerful expression. "Don't sabotage me." Her smile fell away. "Oh, why is she doing this?" Rae groaned softly.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing." She hesitated. "You see that woman and boy who just came in… sitting on the right, middle of the fourth row? She's wearing a black two-piece suit; the kid's in black pinstripes and a tie?"

Bruce looked behind him quickly at the spectators already present. His gaze lingered for a moment on the couple that Rae had pointed out. They were staring at him, the boy with curiosity, the woman with unveiled hostility. He looked quickly past them to where his family was seated. Dick waved. Bruce smiled back.

He looked at Rae. "Who are they?"

"Sharon Ryerson and her son, Joel. Her husband was Paul Ryerson."

Bruce recognized the name. Sergeant Ryerson had been one of the twenty-eight police officers who had lost their lives during the mob war that had also taken Stephanie Brown. He winced. "Under the circumstances, is there a reason I should be concerned?"

"Not really," she answered. "This isn't a sentencing hearing, after all. I just think she's setting herself up for a lot of unnecessary aggravation by being at these proceedings. Any statement she could give would have no bearing on your case." Rae's tone was serious. "It's all hanging on what your doctor has to say, and how well he holds up under the State's cross."

The bailiff cleared his throat. "All rise."

The chain clanked as he stood. Bruce clenched his teeth.

Court was in session.

"Would you please state your full name and professional address for the record?

"Alexander Herschel Morgenstern. My office is currently located at 1284 Grand Avenue in Midtown."

"And your profession?"

"I'm a clinical psychiatrist with a concentration in abnormal psychiatry."

"Is Grand Avenue your only professional address?"

Alex flexed his fingers. "For the moment."

One of Rae's eyebrows arched. "Can you elaborate please, Doctor?"

"I'd be happy to," Alex smiled at her. "I'm also a staff psychiatrist at the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. While I remain affiliated with the Asylum, as recent events have forced it to temporarily shut down, I can't honestly claim to maintain a professional address there."

Rae nodded. "How many years have you been practicing psychiatry?"

"Twelve."

"All of them at Arkham Asylum?"

Alex shook his head. "No, I did a one-year internship at the Asylum during my studies at Gotham State University Medical College. Following graduation, I maintained an affiliation with Rabe Memorial in Bludhaven for three years. I've been on staff at Arkham for the last nine."

Rae walked to the witness stand and handed a document to her witness. "Doctor, I'm showing you what has been marked as Defendant's exhibit number three for identification purposes. Can you identify this document?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, this is my curriculum vitae."

Rae smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Mogenstern. Your honor," she started as she approached the bench, "I would like to introduce the curriculum vitae of Dr. Morgenstern as Defendant's three."

"Admitted," the judge said, nodding in turn.

Rae smiled and continued. "Thank you, Your Honor. I tender Dr. Morgenstern as an expert in the field of clinical psychiatry with a concentration in abnormal psychiatry."

The judge turned to the DA. "Any objections?" He asked.

"None."

"So qualified."

Rae turned back to face Alex. "Bruce Wayne is currently one of your patients, is that correct?" At Alex's confirmation, she took a step closer to the witness stand. "Can you tell the court something of Mr. Wayne's mental state at the time that you became his therapist?"

Observing the back-and-forth, Bruce felt himself relax a bit more. As Rae continued her questioning, Alex seemed completely at ease with the proceedings. Of course, the cynical part of him had to point out that things might look a bit different when it was the State's turn to present.

Rae took a few steps away from the witness stand and then doubled back. "Now, Doctor, according to the report I'm holding, on the afternoon of November fourth, Mr. Wayne escaped from Arkham Asylum, returning several hours later. Is that accurate?"

"Yes, I've read that report," Alex confirmed. "I wasn't present at the time, however."

She frowned. "In your professional opinion, would you consider that to have been a setback in Mr. Wayne's treatment?"

"Not at all," Alex said emphatically.

"And why is that?" Rae asked.

Bruce nodded to himself. They'd gone over this before, all three of them, and they'd come to the conclusion that it was better to bring up the escape during the initial testimony. If they didn't get it out in the open at the start, the DA would be sure to do so on cross-examination.

Alex leaned forward. "As I've just mentioned, at the time that Mr. Wayne was remanded to Arkham, he was laboring under the conviction that the placement was no less than he deserved. As such, he had no interest in evading or—or ameliorating his circumstances. We were working at cross-purposes: he believed that Arkham was a fitting penalty for his errors, and as such, must be endured. On the other hand, the goal of every doctor on the asylum's roster was to work toward his eventual release. Naturally, he balked." His expression turned serious. "A major part of our work together has been to help Mr. Wayne realize that Arkham was a means to an end, and not an end in and of itself. Now, while I can scarcely condone his decision to break loose, I should point out that, over the preceding months, Mr. Wayne and I had built up a comfortable rapport. Due to a prior contractual obligation, I was required to take a temporary absence from the asylum…"

Despite the hours he'd spent with Rae, preparing himself to hear this testimony, Bruce felt his face grow warm. He wasn't proud of his earlier actions, and it infuriated him that they were about to be discussed in open court. There was going to be a _transcript_. For a fleeting instant, he wondered whether it would be possible to call a halt to the proceedings and just return to the psych ward. The moment passed.

"Thank you, Doctor. "

Bruce blinked. His mind had just been wandering. That wasn't good—he _did_ have more than a passing interest in what was taking place, after all. He focused on her next question.

"How would you interpret Mr. Wayne's mental state at that point?"

"Well," Alex replied, "we need to look at the big picture. Many of Mr. Wayne's issues stem from a drive to command and control his environment. This has been evident from his resistance to earlier psychotherapy sessions and from his refusal to work within the system to secure his release. Essentially, not playing by 'our' rules provided him a measure of control."

Rae nodded. "But you were trying to change that."

"Gradually, and with Mr. Wayne's understanding and cooperation at every stage. Initially, we…"

As Alex continued to relate what had transpired during their sessions, Bruce fought the urge to storm out of the courtroom, clanking shackles and all. Or to stand up and shout. Or do something—anything—to end this torment. All the planning and preparation in the world couldn't alleviate his mortification at hearing himself picked apart in this manner. He checked himself. As a youth, he'd willingly subjected himself to physical and mental torture in order to strengthen his resolve. This was the same idea—it was simply another sort of discomfort. He closed his eyes and summoned a basic meditation technique. He could endure this, if only as a means to an end.

"Another symptom of Mr. Wayne's condition," Alex continued, "is an almost pathological fear of asking for help. Commanding it isn't a problem, but _asking_ implies weakness… or lack. In the past, the likelihood of his asking for assistance was almost always inversely proportional to his need: the weaker his actual condition, the greater the need to conceal it." Alex smiled. "This time was different." He leaned forward. "This time, Mr. Wayne recognized he still required psychiatric help. And once he came to this realization, he asked for help. He turned himself over to a person whom he trusted to return him to Arkham's care."

One could have heard a gas pellet hiss in the quiet courtroom as Rae continued. "Doctor Morgenstern, since my client's voluntary return to Arkham, how would you characterize his behavior?"

Alex smiled. "Positive. That's not to say that there haven't been setbacks or touchy subjects, but even when the topic is painful, he's been making a genuine effort."

"In your expert opinion, what course of treatment would best serve my client's needs at the present time?"

"Well," Alex said, "while there's no question in my mind that Mr. Wayne still requires psychiatric care—in my professional opinion, his needs can no longer be adequately met in an institutional setting." Looking directly at the judge, he concluded: "My recommendation would be that Mr. Wayne be seen by a qualified mental health professional in an outpatient setting for a period of not less than six months."

Rae smiled. "Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions."

The judge straightened his posture. "Ms. Boudreau, your witness."

Fran Boudreau took a deep breath and reminded herself again why she was doing this. At one time, she had held the man currently seated at the defense table in high regard. Remembering their past working relationship, she still did. She couldn't help it. But if Bruce Wayne was a danger to society today, then, respect or no respect, it was her duty to see to it that he remained in a secure facility.

"Dr. Morgenstern," she said, "you testified a few moments ago that you considered Mr. Wayne fit to be released."

"Provided he continues therapy as an outpatient, that's correct."

Boudreau picked up a sheaf of papers. "Do you recognize this, Doctor?"

Alex reached for it. "Yes, of course. Those are my notes."

"On your sessions with Mr. Wayne."

"Correct."

She turned to the judge. "Your Honor, may I ask that the material be marked as an exhibit in this case?"

The clerk made the notation. Boudreau continued. "Would you turn to your notes on October 9th, please, Doctor?"

The courtroom was silent, save for the sound of rustling pages. After Alex looked up, Boudreau asked him to read aloud a passage that she had highlighted.

Alex shot an apologetic look in Bruce's direction. "The patient related that chief among his regrets was that in his desire to keep innocents safe from harm, he found himself paradoxically compelled to thrust them into harm's way."

"Is this in reference to the children who fought by his side?"

Alex nodded. "It is."

"Continue."

Bruce fought to maintain his composure as Alex complied. That had been the day that he'd told Alex about Two-Face beating Dick within an inch of his life. He'd nearly given up on the idea of a partner, then, although it wasn't until over a decade later that he'd finally followed through on that impulse. Joker had squeezed off one gunshot too many. And yet, barely three months later, he'd found himself in Crime Alley… and he'd found a fourteen-year-old boy in the act of stealing his tires…

"And less than a year after that, the Joker attacked that boy with a crowbar and left him to die, whether of his injuries or in the subsequent explosion was never determined." Boudreau kept her tone sympathetic, and allowed the facts to speak for themselves.

Bruce fought the urge to turn and see Tim's reaction as Boudreau continued to read. She'd reached the point in Alex's notes that described the wedge that the Robin costume had driven between the youth and his father. Bruce had hated putting the youth in a position where he'd had to dissemble about his whereabouts, and conceal or lie about his injuries. He had burdened a thirteen-year-old boy with responsibilities that would have weighed heavily on a man twice his age. Tim had been willing, but that wasn't the point. A minor could not make this kind of decision on his own.

He forced himself to appear calm. He _knew_ that doctor-patient privilege held only limited application in hearings such as this. He'd sat in on enough of them as a spectator in earlier times. Why had he thought that his own records would remain confidential? And of course, the spectators here today were hanging on every word spoken. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the murmuring behind him.

"If I had never taken him in," Alex continued, "would the boy's father be alive today? It's possible—"

"Objection!" Rae called. "Relevance?"

Boudreau faced the judge. "Your Honor, this line of questioning is necessary to impeach the doctor's testimony."

"Overruled."

Boudreau nodded. "Thank you." She turned back to the witness stand. "Dr. Morgenstern, according to what you've read out here today, Mr. Wayne has recklessly endangered the lives of three… young… boys. Minor children. And he knowingly and recklessly pushed them into danger night after night. One died, in fact. And despite Mr. Wayne's obvious, and I freely grant, genuine remorse, it wasn't long before he found another eager candidate for the costume. Dr. Morgenstern, can you assure this court that, if released, Mr. Wayne won't seek out another child to train?"

Bruce winced. He should have let Selina slip him the lock pick. _No… no, he might have used it. That would have only made matters worse. Marginally._

Alex leaned forward. "As I'd indicated before, Mr. Wayne came to Arkham suffering from a deep-seated need to control, coupled with an aversion to asking for help. I think it's extremely telling that he's at his best when training youngsters, particularly when they're at an age less likely to question authority and more likely to follow his orders without challenge."

"Dr. Morgenstern, yes or no?"

"It's not that simple, Ms. Boudreau," Alex said. "What we've been working on together, he and I, is addressing and resolving his control issues. I do find it encouraging that when Mr. Wayne fled Arkham that night, he did _not_, in fact, seek out one of the young people whom he had trained. Instead, he contacted an individual whom he could trust to act in his best interests; one on whom he could rely not to follow him blindly. He sought out someone whom he respected as an authority figure."

"Your Honor?" Boudreau's irritation was plain.

"Answer the question, Doctor."

Every vestige of humor seemed to vanish from Alex's face. "You're asking me for assurances, Ms. Boudreau. I can assure you that the Bruce Wayne sitting in this room with us now is not the same man he was two years ago. I can assure you that at present, his therapeutic needs can no longer be met in an inpatient setting. And I can assure you that Mr. Wayne has come to a point where he is able to recognize, and to break, destructive patterns."

Boudreau nodded. "But you can't guarantee it, can you?"

Alex frowned. "I can extrapolate from the avail—"

"But you can't guarantee it?"

"No."

Boudreau smiled faintly, and let the matter drop. She made a show of consulting her notes. "You were Cosmo Krank's therapist for a number of years as well, were you not?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, I was."

"Krank was released from Arkham… was it three years ago?"

"Four, if memory serves," Alex corrected diffidently.

Fran smiled. "Four. Thank you. And that was based on your recommendation."

"It was."

Boudreau nodded. "Where is Cosmo Krank, today?"

Alex closed his eyes for a moment.

"Dr. Morgenstern?"

He opened his eyes again. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to remember that for you." He met her eyes steadily. "At the moment, Cosmo Krank resides in Blackgate prison, cellblock B, in the medium security wing."

"And where was Mr. Krank residing until April twenty-ninth of this year?"

To his credit, Alex didn't shy away. "Cosmo Krank was an inmate at Arkham Asylum."

Boudreau's eyes widened. "Arkham? But, I thought that you'd attested that he was fit for release. Isn't that what you said, Doctor?"

"Yes."

"I have no further questions."

The judge nodded his acknowledgement. "Any redirect?"

Rae rose to her feet. "Yes, Your Honor." She approached the witness stand again.

"Dr. Morgenstern," she began, "You've just testified that Cosmo Krank was returned to Arkham. How long after his initial release was it?"

Alex smiled. "Roughly three years."

"Would you please tell the court the circumstance that brought him back to the asylum?"

"Certainly," Alex replied. "While at Arkham, Krank was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. At the time of his release, he was controlling it with medication. However, over time, Krank built up a tolerance to the drug. When it lost its effectiveness, his old problems returned. And since at that time, he was no longer under court order to receive psychiatric counseling, he did not address the situation properly. At Arkham, Krank was responding well to the new medication prescribed, and we were hoping to start the process for his release within the next month or so."

Rae smiled, as a surprised murmur rippled through the courtroom. "Thank you, Doctor Morgenstern, I've nothing further."

The judge looked up. "Thank you, counselors. Any closing statements?"

Both attorneys shook their heads. "None."

The judge nodded. "Then—"

"Judge Shanahan," a shrill voice called from the spectators' rows, "Judge Shanahan, I'd like to make a statement!"

The woman whom Rae had pointed out earlier, Sharon Ryerson, was out of her seat and struggling to get to the aisle, ignoring the frantic hissing of her teenaged son. "Mom! Mom, sit down!"

Rae gasped, barely able to believe her eyes. She whirled toward Fran and then checked herself as she saw that the opposing counsel was as stunned as she was.

The judge lifted his gaze. "Who…"

Ryerson slapped at her son's hand. "Let go of me!" She snapped. She elbowed her way out of the row of people. "Judge Shanahan," she repeated. "My name is Sharon Ryerson." Her words tumbled out in a rush. "I'm the widow of Sergeant Paul Ryerson. Your Honor, my husband was a good man, a fine officer, and he would still be alive today if not for THAT man—"

"Ms. Ry—" Shanahan tried to interrupt.

"…sitting there. He killed m—"

"Ms. Ryers—"

"He should be shut away," her voice took on a hysterical note, "forever and—"

"_MS. RYERSON!"_

Despite himself, Bruce started.

Mid-tirade, Ryerson's jaw snapped shut.

"Ms. Ryerson," Shanahan continued in a softer tone, "I understand your loss. But this is not a sentencing hearing, and your statement has no relevance to these proceedings."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the judge continued. "You may return to your seat. If I hear another outburst from you, I will charge you with contempt. If you attempt to approach the bench again, I will charge you with contempt. Is that understood?"

Chastened, she nodded and resumed her place beside her red-faced son.

The judge waited a moment. "Would the defendant please rise?"

Bruce complied. Once more, he tried to ignore the clinking of the chains. Next to him, Rae stood as well. He stole a sidelong glance at her, trying to see whether her expression or her body language in any way indicated how she expected the judge to rule. He couldn't tell. It seemed forever before Judge Shanahan spoke again.

"I've weighed the evidence and I've heard the testimony from both sides. Although I mark the compelling evidence that the defendant has made great strides in psychiatric care…"

Bruce gripped the edge of the table for support. _'Although,'_ he thought to himself. _That didn't sound promising…_

"I find that the defense has not been able to prove that Mr. Wayne is no longer mentally ill."

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. Dick's? Tim's? Someone—a woman—hissed "No!" He thought it was Cass, but whispering voices all sounded similar.

"However," Shanahan continued, "I do concur with Dr. Morgenstern's recommendation for Assisted Outpatient Treatment for a period of no less than one year."

He froze. Had he just heard…?

"_Yessssssssss!"_

That was Tim. He was sure of it.

"If there is one more outburst, I will clear this courtroom."

Rae leaned over to him. "Congratulations. Remember, Bruce, what we discussed."

He nodded. No negotiation. No show of pride or resentment. All he had to do was agree.

Shanahan continued. "Bruce Wayne. Over the next twelve months, you will continue to meet with your therapist as often as he deems necessary. You are to follow all directions and recommendations of the therapist. If you are prescribed any medication, you will take it as directed." His eyebrows drew together. "You will not operate as Batman, nor as any other costumed crimefighter while you are under civil commitment. Failure to comply with any of the directives of your therapist or failure to comply with the orders of the court, you will be returned to inpatient care immediately. Do you understand?"

Bruce squared his shoulders. "Yes, Your Honor." It wasn't lost on him that the judge had doubled the timeframe that Alex had recommended. It wasn't a _total_ victory. Still, it was close enough. He could accept this arrangement. Willingly.

Shanahan cleared his throat. "Defendant is hereby committed to the Gotham City Mental Health Authority for a period of one year as an outpatient. There will be another hearing called to reevaluate at that time. Court is adjourned."

"NO!" Sharon Ryerson struggled through the crowd, charging toward Bruce. "You can't go free! You don't des—_let me GO!_"

As a deputy from the Sheriff's department clapped a hand on his shoulder, Bruce saw Dick grip the woman's arm, holding her until a bailiff arrived. The deputy gave him a slight tug. "Let's get downstairs and lose that jewelry," he said, indicating the shackles.

Bruce nodded numbly, still trying to process what had just transpired.

"Bruce." Rae clutched his other arm, as she walked alongside him. "Are you okay?"

He wasn't going to leave the building in chains. He wasn't going to walk outside with an ankle monitor. He wasn't going back to the hospital. And, at least today, he wasn't going back to an empty house filled with too many memories. He looked Rae dead in the eye. "Better," he said, as he felt his lips pull up into a smile. "Better than I've been in a long time." His smile broadened. "Thanks."

* * *

After that, everything happened quickly. The deputy escorted him downstairs, where another officer removed his shackles. There were papers that had to be signed and stamped. Rae explained the nature of each one. Bruce tried to read them over, but the printed words weren't sinking in. He signed them anyway.

"Ready to face the media?" Rae asked.

Bruce looked at her. "No," he said, deadpan.

She smiled. "Congratulations, Bruce" she said. "You've just unequivocally demonstrated that you're sane." Someone called out a greeting to her and she nodded in response.

Bruce took a deep breath. "Alright," he said, getting up. "Let's go."

* * *

Sure enough, when Rae opened the door, and they walked outside, it was to a bombardment of clicking cameras and calls of "Mr. Wayne!" and "Batman, just a few questions?" Bruce ignored them. Behind the media representatives, standing a short distance away, he could see Dick and Cass watching—waiting for him.

He squared his shoulders and took a step forward. Someone shoved a microphone at him, and he looked down into the earnest brown eyes of a woman in her mid-thirties. He knew her. "Mr. Wayne? Is there any statement you'd like to make to our viewers?"

Bruce smiled at her. "Ms. Chen, isn't it?" he asked warmly. Gently but firmly he motioned for her to move the microphone. "No, I've no statement at the present time. Please submit any requests for interviews to my attorneys." _Not that he had any intention of granting them._

Someone snapped a photograph. "Just something we can quote?"

Rae spoke up then. "Of course. We're happy with the results of the hearing. Now let the man through."

The crowd parted, but the cameras kept snapping as he made his way toward Cass and Dick.

Dick grinned. "Sorry to pull you away from your adoring public," he smirked. "We could come back…"

Bruce's face froze midway between a smile and a snarl. "Just keep moving," he muttered as he pushed his way past them. He'd gone maybe two steps before Dick clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, wait up. You don't know where we're parked. Besides, I'm the one with the car keys." He checked himself. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He hesitated. "Dick… thanks for coming."

The younger man blinked. "Bruce, I wouldn't have stayed away today of all days," he said.

"I don't just mean today," Bruce said. He turned to face him. "I… I wouldn't have lasted at Arkham without…" He broke off. "If there was a time—that first year especially—when you wondered whether your visits mattered, they did. I know I made it easy for you to walk away. Thank you for… for not giving up, when you had every reason to. It mattered."

Dick shook his head. "Bruce," he said slowly, "you've got it all wrong. Even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have given up on you. You never taught me how."

Only the twin realizations that the reporters were still observing them and that any display of emotion now would be sure to air on the six o'clock news allowed Bruce to control himself until they reached the car.

* * *

_Epilogue_

"His performance is better than adequate," Bruce said aloud, as he looked at the scene on the monitors. Eight opponents taken down in less than ninety seconds, and Batman had made it look easy. Two years ago, Bruce thought, that could have been him. Not now, though. Dick had seemed to fly from one assailant to the next, barely conforming to the letter of the law of gravity. Just reviewing the moves he'd witnessed made Bruce's arms and legs feel heavy.

Barbara bristled for a moment, before she realized that coming from Bruce, 'better than adequate' was lavish praise. "He has a good teacher." On the screen before them, Batman fired off a grapnel and took to the night sky. "Do you miss it?" She asked.

Bruce nodded. "And yet… I find it difficult to believe that two years ago… that was me."

She nodded. "I understand." She'd gone through something similar, after seeing Huntress, and later Cass, in the Batgirl suit. There was a difference, though. Even before the shooting, Barbara had retired from the costume. She'd never planned to wear it again. "Do you think," she asked cautiously, "that it might be you again at some point?"

Bruce studied the scene that Dick had just vacated. "I don't know," he admitted. "I wish I did."

He stood up. "I'm heading downstairs. It's been a long day."

Barbara nodded. "Good night," she called after his retreating form.

Bruce didn't answer. Tomorrow, he thought, he would call on Selina. And he needed to sit down with Dick and take a good look at where he stood financially, and what his current status was with WE. And he needed to prepare himself mentally to return to the manor. And Batman? Shanahan might have forbidden Bruce the costume, but even had he not done so, the truth was that it would be months before he would be ready to reclaim the mantle. If, in fact, he still wanted it. And if he _did_, Bruce reflected, well, he knew _something_ about keeping his activities hidden. In any event, the decision did not need to be made tonight. Tonight, he was free. The hearing was past. Arkham was behind him. The future could wait.

_There's a world out there and I wanna be in it  
I got a life and I'm gonna live it  
Don't tell me the sky's the limit  
There's footprints on the moon_


End file.
